


Masters of Destiny

by DeliriumsDelight7



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark One Belle (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Force-Feeding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7
Summary: Baelfire's fourteenth birthday is in three days, and he's just discovered that the Duke's conscription age has been lowered again.  His papa's attempt to spirit him away from the Frontlands fails, and in his desperation, Bae is forced to enter a pact with the Dark One.  But the infamous mage is not what Bae expected.  A Dark One Belle/Spinner Rumpel story.Winner of the Best Spinner!Rumpel award in the 2021 TEAs
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 61
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am an IDIOT for starting another WIP. Oh well. I need to scratch the fantasy itch.

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Looking up from his work, Baelfire leaned his hoe against the dilapidated wooden fence that surrounded their miniscule vegetable garden, scrubbing his sweaty, calloused palms against his roughspun trousers. Last frost had come late this year, and he needed to get the seeds sown as soon as possible if they were to have food for the winter.

Still, the allure of curiosity was too much to bear. Horses only came to their remote hamlet for three reasons: merchants peddling their wares on the holy days, Duke’s men collecting annual taxes, or knights coming to collect new soldiers for the Ogres War when they came of age. It wasn’t a holy day; Ostara was weeks ago, and Beltane was nearly a month away. Taxes weren’t collected until after harvest. And everyone in the village had memorized the birth date of every last child. Where once the anniversary of a child’s birth had been cause for celebration, now it was occasion for worry and solemnity as the child drew ever closer to conscripting age. But nobody was turning fifteen for another two months.

Perhaps there was news of the Ogres War, Baelfire thought optimistically as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Maybe the soldiers of the Frontlands were finally turning the tide of battle. His eyes strayed, as they often did, to the red-stained horizon to the east. The fires of the battlefields seemed as close as ever. But perhaps in time, the bloody lights would begin to recede.

Well, there was only one way to find out what was going on. Vaulting over the crooked fence with a grin, he took off running towards Morraine’s house. Morraine’s mama always had her ear to the ground for the latest gossip; if anyone would know what was going on, it would be her. He took the dirt path of the King’s Road at a loping run, kicking up dust with every step. As he rounded the corner to his destination, he pulled up short at the sight that greeted him.

A group of mounted knights, wearing the black studded leather armor and chainmail coifs of the Duke’s knights, surrounded Morraine’s thatch-roofed cottage from all sides. He could hear Morraine’s mama screaming from within, while an armored knight walked Morraine through the door with his gauntleted hands gripping her shoulders none too gently.

Baelfire frowned, his mind whirring with the implications. Today was Morraine’s birthday. Her  _ fourteenth _ birthday. She should be safe for a full year. Say what you would about the Duke’s knights, but they never took a child before their time. Which could only mean one thing. 

He had to find Papa. Papa would know what to do.

Tearing down the dirt road at twice the speed he’d ran previously, Baelfire shoved aside the cloth covering that served as a temporary doorway covering until they could afford to have the carpenter over. Papa sat in his customary spot: on his stool at the spinning wheel, a short way away from the fire. His pinched face had the same focused, yet faraway look he always had when he was spinning. He looked up as Bae burst into the room.

“Papa! Papa!” He huffed and gasped, frantically trying to catch his breath. “They’ve come for Morraine!”

His father stared at him blankly for a moment, absorbing the news. Without a word he stood up, snatched up his worn walking stick from where it leaned on a nearby pillar, and hurried them both out of the cottage. 

Somehow, the knights had gotten here nearly as fast as he had. Most of them were still mounted on their horses - all except for the one knight who frogmarched Morraine forward, and the two who brandished their swords threateningly at anyone who got in their way. 

Morraine’s mother, still dressed in her nightgown with a shawl wrapped haphazardly around her shoulders, was pleading with the knights, her voice raising in volume with every word. “No, no. No, don’t take her! You can’t take her! She’s my baby. Don’t take my baby!” 

Beside her, her husband restrained her from lunging at the knights. Far from wailing and screaming like his wife, he crumpled into himself, whimpering just one word, over and over: “Please. Please. Please.”

The knight at the head of the group spoke. His dark brown hair was shorn short, his beard showing the first hints of gray. “Nonsense. She’s a fine, strong girl. She’ll make a fine soldier.” 

Morraine’s papa shook his head in denial. “It’s a mistake,” he insisted. “She’s turning fourteen. Only fourteen!”

The knight smiled unpleasantly, and Bae couldn’t help feeling that the man was  _ enjoying _ tearing a family apart. He remembered long winter nights, huddled up with Papa in the cot they’d pulled up to the fireplace, blankets piled high to trap in what body heat they could. While Bae’s teeth chartered with cold, Papa told him stories he’d learned from his aunties as a child, weaving tales of how kindness, bravery, and quick wits could overcome even the most dire obstacles. The knights in his favorite stories had been chivalrous, honorable, and courageous. This knight was nothing like the tales he’d been told.

“Orders of the Duke!” he crowed. “The Ogre Wars have taken their toll this season. More troops will turn the tide.”

A thrill of terror shook Bae from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He felt Papa’s arm wrap around his shoulder, tugging him close to his side. The spinner’s fingers bit painfully into his upper arm. “They lowered the age again, Papa,” he whispered. Beside him, Papa trembled.

“Take her,” the knight continued. His mouth curled in a malicious leer. “She’ll ride with me.”

The knight gripping Morraine’s shoulders marched her forward, hefting the blonde girl onto the saddle behind its current rider. 

Morraine’s mama wrenched her arm free from her husband’s grasp, pulling a paring knife from her sleeve. “No!” she screamed. “You can’t have her!” She lunged for the mounted knight… and froze, vibrating with tension.

No, not tension. She and her husband were both frozen in place, held by some nearly-invisible force. Magic, Bae realized with equal parts amazement and fear. He was seeing magic. Real, honest-to-gods  _ magic. _ Morraine’s parents both collapsed to the ground, choking and clutching at their throats. Bae followed the knight’s eyes past them, to the field beyond his house. A figure becloaked in royal blue velvet sat an enormous, coppery draft horse with a blond mane. Maybe it was a trick of his eyes - the distance, and the sheer massive size of the horse - but the figure looked even smaller than Papa. His fist was raised in the air, radiating a soft, turquoise light.

“The Dark One seems to think I can,” the knight said smugly. With a smirk, he nodded to the mage - the Dark One? - who lowered his arm and ended the spell. Morraine’s parents stopped convulsing, taking in great gasps of air while the knights rode off.

Bae turned to Papa, terror making his voice crack. “My birthday’s in three days. They’ll come for me in three days!” he cried.

His father pulled him even closer to his side, trembling even more than Bae was. “We’ll find a way,” he soothed. 

Bae looked into his Papa’s eyes. He knew that Rumpelstiltskin was a fearful man. He shrank away from conflict with the men of the village who ridiculed him for his cowardice. When someone demanded quality thread and yarn for half what they were worth, he hardly stammered out an argument. When food stores ran low in the winter and he feigned lack of appetite so Bae could go to bed with a full belly, the deep lines of worry never left his face. But he had never seen his father look more terrified than in this moment.

“We - w-we’ll find a way,” he stammered as Morraine’s mama wailed in grief and despair.

Bae looked off to the eastern horizon. Suddenly those fires seemed closer than ever. He shivered, following Papa back into the house.

******

Bae strode onto the battlefield, his plate armor shining in the ruddy light of the burning plains, cape fluttering in the wind. The skirmish had been ongoing for months now, ogres and men clashing fiercely in a desperate bid for dominance. The enemy forces pushed inexorably forward, and the side of the light quailed under their terrifying might. The flame of hope guttered in the eyes of the soldiers, ready to go out at the slightest breeze.

But now Baelfire the Bold had joined the fray. With his faithful steed and his trusty sword, Caliburn, at his side, he had no need to fear the ogres. He was valiant. He was peerless with the blade. He was - 

He was being shaken awake.

“Bae. Waken up son. Come on, waken up, son.” Bae looked around groggily, rubbing the sleep from his bleary eyes. Where…? Right. He wasn’t on the front lines of the Ogres War. He was home, in his cottage’s one pallet, nestled under their warmest fleece blanket and his own short, pale blue cloak for added warmth in the chilly spring night. His father was already dressed for travel: straw-colored cloak about his shoulders, wrought iron lantern in hand, and a burlap travel sack thrown over his shoulder. Frantic fingers plucked at Bae’s shirt, tugging him up from bed. “We’re going now. We’re going now! Come on, come on.” 

Too exhausted to ask questions, Bae rolled out of bed with a groan, tugging his thick leather boots on. His toes curled uncomfortably inside the cramped confines of his shoes - another pair outgrown. He didn’t have the heart to ask Papa to take him to the cobbler; a new pair of shoes meant nights where Papa only cooked enough food for one because he “wasn’t hungry.” 

Papa allowed him just enough time to throw his hip-length cloak over his shoulders before shooing him out the door, following behind as fast as his limp would allow. Bae’s fingers fumbled with his cloak ties, knotting them hastily. “Papa, where--”

“Shh!” Papa glanced anxiously up and down the road. Every window in the nearby huts were dark, and there was no sign of torchlight to be seen. Apart from the scarlet glow of fires on the horizon, all was obscured in darkness. “We must stay quiet, Bae,” he whispered. “At least until we get to the forest.”

Bae nodded, walking side by side with Papa. Real stealth was impossible due to the older man’s limp, but there was nobody around to see them. Just as well; the light from the lantern ruined any chance they had of blending with the shadows, but Rumpelstiltskin could ill afford to take a bad step on his ruined ankle in the night’s gloom.

Baelfire’s thoughts strayed to the events of this morning. Morraine’s terrified brown eyes filling with quiet tears. Her parents, wailing and begging for mercy. He wondered how many other children had been taken this day. How many other parents had mourned that final year with their children? And what right did he have to escape, when so many others fought? His uneasy conscience received no answer but for the chirping of crickets in the tall grass. 

As they passed the edge between field and forest, the needles of the evergreen trees dampened all surrounding sound, and Bae could keep his silence no longer. “It feels wrong to run away.”

Papa didn’t so much as slow down. His mouth formed a thin, pinched line in his face. “It’s worse to die, son. I’ll not have you taken away to that Ogres War.”

Bae opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a hooded figure approaching them in the night. Papa stiffened in fear. “Alms?” the figure croaked, holding a gnarled hand out beseechingly. It was an old beggar woman, back hunched with the gout. “Alms for the poor?”

Papa hesitated for just an instant, conflict in his eyes. They could afford no delays. But even in their meanest circumstances, Rumpelstiltskin had never turned down those few less fortunate than he. “Yes,” he said, rummaging through his pack. He produced a bruised, spongy apple from last season’s harvest, and a stale crust of bread. “It’s all I can spare,” he apologized in a whisper.

“Thank you,” the old beggar rasped. “Oh, thank you.” She pressed something into Papa’s hands. “For your kindness,” she added, backing slowly away and melting into the shadows.

Papa stared thoughtfully into the darkness where she had disappeared. “What did she give you?” Bae asked.

Startled out of his reverie, Papa held up his prize: a single red rose, its long stem stripped of thorns. He frowned, his gaze alternating between the flower and the trees in the distance. “She seemed…” He shook his head to clear it. “We don’t have time. We need to go!” He tucked the rose carefully into his sleeve before pushing Bae forward with the hand not holding his walking staff.

“Are you sure there’s no other way?” Bae asked, unwilling to let their previous conversation go.

Papa shook his head quickly. “Oh, I can’t lose you, Bae. You’re all I’ve got left, son.” His voice lowered to a mere whisper. “You don’t understand what war is like. What it can do to you.” Sad brown eyes stared off into the distance, haunted by past horrors. Suddenly, his head jerked upward, like a frightened rabbit scenting a predator on the breeze. Bae heard it a moment later: hoofbeats on the dirt-packed road. Papa grabbed Bae roughly by the shoulder, shoving him toward a steep decline. “Quick - hide. In the ditch, hide! Go, go!” he cried. 

“Stop right there!” a man yelled.

Bae took off at a run, Papa hobbling behind him as fast as he could. Before they moved ten paces, they were surrounded by mounted men carrying torches. The flickering firelight illuminated black studded leather armor and chainmail coifs. These were the very same knights who had taken Morraine. The light from the torches threw the surrounding trees into sharp relief.

“What are you doing on the King’s Road?” the leader asked suspiciously, staring imperiously down at the pair.

Bae shifted on his feet uneasily. Running from conscription was a death sentence. But so was lying to a knight of the realm. 

It seemed Papa had no qualms about committing either crime. “We have some wool to sell at the fair at Longbourne, sir,” he mumbled meekly. A clumsy lie, considering neither of them carried a single tuft of wool between them.

The knight looked them up and down, likely not missing that detail. He dismounted, paying particular mind to Papa. “I know you, don’t I?” Papa hunched his shoulders, shrinking in on himself. “What was your name? Hm? Spindleshanks?” He smirked at Bae, inviting him to share the joke. “Threadwhistle?” It wasn’t funny. Not one bit. Anger burned hot in Bae’s belly, making his hands shake. “Hobblefoot?” 

Unable to keep quiet for one more second, Bae took an angry step forward. “His name’s Rumpelstiltskin,” he snarled.

“Hush, boy!” Papa whispered.

But it was too late. The knight’s eyes lit with recognition. “Rumpel… ahhhh, the man who ran.” Bae’s brow lowered in confusion; his papa’s head lowered in shame. “Is this your boy? How old is he?” the knight inquired. Papa’s mouth worked wordlessly, telling the man all he needed to know. He turned his penetrating glare on Bae. “What’s your name?”

Raising his chin defiantly, he said, “I’m Baelfire, and I’m thirteen.”

The knight’s smile took on a predatory gleam. “When’s your birthday?”

Bae shot an apologetic look at his papa. But he refused to hide. Not when people were dying. “In two days’ time.”

“Shush, boy!”

Smug eyes turned to the trembling spinner. “Did you teach him how to run as well, Rumpelstiltskin?” He smirked at the look of misery on Papa’s face before turning his gaze back to Bae. “Did he tell you?” he asked. “Did he tell you how he ran, and the ogres turned the tide of battle, and all the others were killed, and he returned home to a wife who could not bear the sight of him?”

“Please,” Papa whispered.

Bae wanted to ask what the knight was talking about, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Papa didn’t speak of the injury that lamed him, and Bae didn’t ask; it was just something that had always been, in the same way that the sky was blue and fire was hot. And Mama was dead. Papa said so, though grief kept him from saying any more on the subject.

“You see,” the larger man continued gleefully, “women do not like to be married to cowards.”

Still quivering in fear, lips turned down in shame and misery, Papa whispered: “Please don’t speak to my boy like that.”

Rather than take offense, the knight grinned at the spinner’s meek censure. “It’s treason to avoid service,” he said decisively. Then, to his men: “Take the boy now.”

Papa burst into action then, shoving Bae behind himself to shield him. “No, no, no! No!” he cried desperately. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” the black-clad man repeated. “You have no money, no influence, no land, no title, no power. The truth is, all you really have… is fealty.” That malicious smile was back. “Kiss my boot.”

Papa hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You asked my price. Kiss. My boot.”

Lip quivering, voice thick with unshed tears, Papa carefully avoided looking Bae in the face. “Not in front of my boy,” he pleaded.

But mercy didn’t appear to be a concept that the knight was familiar with. Planting his stance, he gripped his sword and bared a few inches of steel threateningly. “ _ Kiss my boot! _ ” he roared.

Cheeks dark with humiliation, Papa collapsed to his knees. The torchlight shone on him from above, illuminating his cloak even while it cast his face in shadow. With hesitant movements, he crawled forward to the knight’s feet, his ankle jutting out at an awkward angle. He pressed firmly to the muddy toe of the boot while Baelfire stared on, transfixed.

Pleased, the knight laughed at Papa, glancing at Bae to see if he shared in his mirth. Drawing his foot back, he kicked Papa, hard, in the head. The spinner cried out, crumpling into a heap at the man’s feet.

“Papa!” Bae cried, rushing to his side. Rumpelstiltskin’s head lolled limply when Bae shook him, eyes closed and mouth slack. He was out cold. Ignoring the sound of hooves as the knights rode away into the night, he shook Papa again. “Come on, Papa, waken up!” He tried slapping Papa’s face gently, and his hand came away wet. The dim light of their lantern showed blood on his hand, and on the side of Papa’s face where he was bleeding from his temple.

For the first time that night, Baelfire truly knew fear. The shadows of the forest loomed around him - tall, black, and deep, hiding who knew how many dangers. The knights could change their minds and come back for him, and he would be helpless to resist. If not them, then the forest at night could hold any number of untold horrors. Wolves. Ghosts. Dark creatures. 

Even if nothing lurked in the shadows, he was helpless here. Papa was unconscious and bleeding, and Bae lacked the strength to carry him back to the village. He could run for help, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find Papa again in the darkness.

A twig snapped nearby, causing Bae to flinch in fright. “Don’t fret, boy,” a familiar voice croaked. “Just an old biddy poking her nose where it doesn’t belong.” Gnarled fingers pulled back her moss-green hood to reveal her face.

The sight was hardly reassuring. The woman’s face was ravaged by age: skin wrinkled, sagging, and dotted with liver spots; wispy, white hair thinning so much that her scalp was visible; and her wide grin would have been called toothy, if she’d had more than four visible teeth. Despite her age, her eyes were a clear, vibrant blue, taking in the scene and missing nothing. She was the very picture of the evil witches in Papa’s stories. Bae half-expected her to ride shrieking into the night on a giant mortar and pestle.

“Ran afoul of those knights, did you?” she asked.

“Please, ma’am, they knocked Papa out. Can you get help?”

The old woman waved a withered hand dismissively. “Phaw. ‘Get help,’ he says,” she muttered. “I’ve two good legs, which is more than your papa can say. Now, make yourself useful and hold up that lantern. I need to get a good look at that cut.” 

Bae did as he was told. The orange light from the lantern cast the sharp angles of Papa’s face in deep shadows and bright highlights. The blood on his face glistened wetly in the lamplight. The old woman frowned for a moment, straightening abruptly as though taken aback by something. She recovered quickly with a blink, forcing Papa’s eyes open and nodding in satisfaction at whatever she saw. She prodded the area around the cut with one gnarled, clawed finger, nodding again.

“No long-term harm done, I think,” she concluded. “We’ll want to get him home so we can wash and bind that wound.”

Bae eyed the old woman doubtfully. A little help was better than none, of course, but… “Do you think you could carry his upper half? I know how to hold his leg without jostling it.”

With an undignified snort, the old woman hoisted Papa over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “These old bones have some strength in them yet,” she quipped. “Grab your papa’s pack and walking stick, boy, and lead the way back to your home.”

Bae hesitated. If there was one thing he’d learned in his nearly fourteen years, it was that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. “We… we haven’t any coin to pay you,” he admitted.

“Did I ask for coin?” the old beggar woman croaked rhetorically. “Now, come. Your papa weighs less than a newborn foal, but carrying him is wearying work. Once we have him tucked safely abed, I’m sure you and I can come to an arrangement.”

******

Baelfire ladled watery soup into an earthenware bowl. The soup was little more than river water, a wrinkly old potato plucked free of eyes, and a sad, withered carrot. Still, it was better than nothing. He carried the bowl carefully over to the old woman, who had just finished binding Papa’s head with a clean bit of cloth. Her eyes now darted around the hut with a calculating look.

He handed the bowl over to her, careful not to slop any of the thin, bland broth on her. “Sorry I don’t have more to offer.”

She waved off his apology. “Phaw! A warm fire, a hot meal, and a kind soul providing them. I’ve not experienced such luxury in years.” Her manner was nonchalant, but those eyes burned like twin coals in her wizened face. She devoured the soup with far more relish than it likely deserved, scraping the bowl with the old crust of bread Papa had given her earlier. Finally she set the bowl aside with a contented sigh. “Your mother spins?” she asked, gesturing to the spinning wheel near the hearth.

“Papa does,” he corrected. “I tend the garden and the sheep.”

“And where is your mother now?” she pressed.

Bae hesitated. Until tonight, he’d been certain that his mother had died nearly ten years ago. But now after what that brute of a knight had said, he was no longer sure of anything. “Papa says she died.”

“Hm.” Her eyes strayed back to Papa where he rested on the cot. That look was back on her face - the confused frown she’d worn in the forest, as though there was something about Papa that she couldn’t puzzle out. “He risks everything for you, boy,” she said. “If you’re caught running from conscription, well, the only punishment you’ll receive is being sent to the front, same as if you went willingly. But aiding a deserter? He’ll dance on a gibbet for sure.”

Bae’s stomach roiled at the thought of his papa hanging for trying to keep him safe. “I never thought about that,” he admitted. “He - he says he can’t lose me, that I’m all he has. But I never thought about what would happen to him if I got caught.”

“A truly desperate soul,” the woman croaked softly, as though talking to herself.

Frustrated tears welled up in his eyes; he dashed them away angrily. “I don’t know what to  _ do! _ ” he cried. “We can’t escape. With Papa’s bad foot, one day isn’t enough time to get somewhere safe. And even if we did, what right do I have to stay safe when everyone else is laying down their lives?” He paused, considering. “Maybe… maybe if I go, it’ll turn the tide, somehow.” His mind wandered back to his dream, to heroic deeds and tales of valor.  _ Baelfire the Bold. _

The old woman snorted. “Have a lot of weapons training, do you?”

He blinked. “Well… no,” he confessed.

“Then are you a master tactician? Or a powerful mage?”

“No.” He blushed, feeling foolish.

“Then you’re just another body to add to the pile. One more child soldier sacrificed in a meaningless war,” she snarled. “And what will your Papa do when you die in battle?”

Bae thought about it -  _ really _ thought about it in a way he hadn’t previously. “He’d die,” he realized. “He can’t farm, or herd the sheep with his leg. He has no friends, no other family to rely on.” He raised hopeless eyes to the old woman’s ugly face. “So what do I do? No matter what we try, Papa will die!”

“Ah, but there’s another way,” the woman said with a gummy smile.

“What? I’ll do anything!”

Her grin widened at that. “What if I told you that there’s a way to end the Ogres War like  _ that? _ ” she asked with a snap of her fingers.

Alarum bells rang in Baelfire’s head. If such a way existed, surely someone would have thought of it by now. But he needed to know more. “I’d say it sounds too good to be true,” he said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I can tell you that the Duke has had the means to do so all along.” The old woman leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. Baelfire followed her example. “Hidden in the Duke’s keep is a magic dagger,” she rasped.

“An ogre-slaying knife?” Bae asked excitedly, imagining himself on the battlefield with such a weapon. “What does it do? Do ogres explode if it touches them? Oh, or does every strike against a monster become a true, killing blow?”

The hag rolled her eyes, her lip curling in disgust. “Nothing so crude,” she muttered. “No, this dagger has no particular power against the ogres but this: whomever wields the dagger controls the Dark One.”

Bae frowned. “That can’t be,” he disagreed. “If the Duke had something like that, he could simply command the Dark One to kill the ogres.”

“Ah, but with the war over, neighboring lands would no longer send coin and supplies to aid with the war effort,” she retorted. “Why end a war that lines his coffers?”

“But--”

“ _ Think, _ boy!” she interrupted. “What business has the Dark One in aiding the abduction of children? Surely such a powerful mage would have better things to do! Only compulsion could make the Dark One dance on a mere duke’s strings!”

This was all so much to take in. He already had enough on his plate, knowing that he was to be sent to the front lines in a mere two days. Now he had to contend with Papa’s death on top of that. And this magic dagger that controlled a powerful wizard? It sounded so much like a bedtime story, like the magic lamp that housed a wish-granting  _ djinni _ . 

But this woman seemed utterly convinced of it, to the point where she grew angry at his skepticism. Why would an old beggar woman care so deeply about rumors and hearsay?

He took a deep breath, calling to mind his Papa’s words any time Bae did something rash and impulsive.  _ Slow down, son, and consider all of the angles. Don’t act until you’re sure what you’re getting yourself into. _

Mentally, he broke down tonight’s events as much as he could. Fact: he had two days to either submit himself for conscription, or find a way out of it. Fact: if Papa tried to help him escape again, he’d hang. Fact: this old woman, whom he’d never seen before, just happened to be in the right place at the right time to help him. Fact: despite being bent nearly double from the gout, she somehow had the strength to pick up a fully grown man and carry him nearly a mile without breaking a sweat. Fact: she had more information about a nobleman’s secret, magical dagger than any beggar woman should be privy to. Fact: she wanted to “come to an arrangement” with him, and was determined to tell him about this dagger.

Something about this wasn’t right. This beggar was more than she seemed. A witch, perhaps, wanting the Dark One himself under her thrall.

“What are you?” he asked hoarsely.

The hag’s innocent look was completely unconvincing. “Just a beggar, relying on the kindness of strangers,” she croaked.

He shook his head. “No. You’ve been after something from the start, herding me to your way of thinking like a sheep. I’m not falling for it. So either you tell me what you want with this dagger, or we’re done here.” It occurred to him that he should probably be more respectful; if she was indeed a witch, antagonizing her wasn’t the smartest move. But it was too late now, he supposed.

The woman stared at him, her mouth drawn in a downturned pucker. Drawing herself up regally, she stood up. When had her back gotten so straight? “Very well,” she conceded. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter.” Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply through her nose… and  _ blurred. _

It was the only way Bae could think to describe it. One moment she was there, clear as day. The next, she became fuzzy, indistinct. Her ugliness melted away, to reveal… well… something completely different. Her frizzy, thinning white hair became thick and lustrous, the curls gleaming a burnished bronze. Her wrinkled, sagging skin smoothed… to a degree. Her face now had the tight, smooth lines of youth, but where before it had been a pale flesh tone, now she appeared to be covered in scales the color of tarnished silver. Just as startling were her eyes. As an old woman, her piercing blue eyes had lacked the rheumy bleariness of old age, appearing sharp and alert. In her current form, they had lost none of their edge. But instead of a normal sky-blue, her overlarge irises were the pale, shining silver of coins meant to pay the toll to ferry the souls of the dead to the afterlife.

The final thing to change was her cloak. Where once the old woman had worn a forest green woolen cloak, this - this - whatever she was - wore a hooded cape of royal blue velvet, held carefully closed to cover her from neck to toes.

By the gods’ names. He recognized that cloak, and that small frame, only inches taller than his own. “You’re - you’re the Dark One,” he stammered.

“In the flesh,” she hissed.

“But - but why show yourself to me? You could’ve made something up, or--”

“I haven’t the patience for intrigue and subtlety,” she whispered. He had to lean forward and crane his neck to hear her. His efforts seemed to please her; the smile on her face looked like the cat who caught the canary. “I much prefer to work with souls as desperate as your papa; they tend to miss the little details and only hear what they wish to.” Her eyes flickered to Papa where he lay on the cot, just for a split second, but he saw that same curious frown pucker her brows before her face was schooled to blankness.

Okay. The Dark One was in his meager hut. The meager hut that reeked of lanolin. And he’d fed her watery soup that barely qualified for the name, before speaking to her in a less than respectful tone. She hadn’t turned him into a toad yet; he could only hope that he hadn’t offended her. Should he apologize? Grovel, maybe? 

As soon as the idea occurred to him, he rejected it. As Morraine’s mama liked to say, “Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began.” No sense changing the pattern of the weave halfway through. 

Steeling himself with a deep, shuddering breath, Baelfire spoke with a voice that shook more than he would have wished. “So the Duke has a dagger that controls you. Why do you need me? Why not take it back?”

The Dark One’s lips pressed in a thin, impatient line. “I wouldn’t be in a hovel, manipulating children to do my dirty work, if I could simply take the dagger back myself,” she whispered. Bae had to strain to hear. “I can’t get the dagger back under my own power, through deliberate action or inaction.” She grinned, and whispered something else he didn’t catch.

“You can speak up, you know. I doubt Papa’s going to wake up after that blow to the head.”

She scowled at him. “I said, ‘but there are always loopholes to exploit.’ If you’re having trouble hearing, boy, I suggest you spend less time talking and more time listening,” she hissed waspishly. Though she didn’t give actual voice to her words, Bae noticed that she did obligingly increase her volume. 

“Right.” He considered her words. She wasn’t above twisting words and exploiting weaknesses where she could. He certainly wasn’t safe from that. It was something to keep in mind. “So you can’t take the dagger back yourself. I’m guessing you can’t kill the Duke and take it back then?” He didn’t relish the idea of anyone being murdered - even someone as seemingly deserving as the Duke. But if she couldn’t kill the Duke to take the dagger back, then she couldn’t kill Bae to take it back, either.  _ If _ he decided to go along with this insanity.

“No.”

“So what  _ can _ you do to help?” he demanded. He couldn’t believe he was seriously considering this. He had to be  _ mad _ . Standing up from the stool at the spinning wheel, he paced the hut restlessly. “I’m just a kid. Like you said, I’m no warrior. I don’t know strategy. And no matter what Papa says when I rub salve into his ankle, I have no magic to speak of. How are you expecting me to lay siege to a  _ castle _ ?”

“I can give you information,” the Dark One breathed. Her eyes followed his every move. Apart from that, she stood perfectly still. Bae wasn’t fooled; she was tensed and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “When the guards will be indisposed. How to get in and out undetected - if you’re careful.”

He raised his chin to her challengingly. “How do you know I won’t just keep the dagger once I have it?” He gestured at the mean dwelling around them. “Papa and I have to go without any time the townsfolk refuse to buy from him, or cheat him out of the money his craft deserves. A magical servant could make our lives a thousand times better.” 

“You mean magical  _ slave _ ,” she snarled aloud. Her voice, far from being the guttural growl he expected, had a mellifluous tone with a foreign lilt he couldn’t place. “And I don’t. I’ll just have to trust you.” Her lips pursed at the thought.

“And how do I know you won’t just kill me once I hand the dagger over?” he continued.

The Dark One’s toothy grin was even more unpleasant than her disguise’s. Her teeth, while straight and plentiful, were blackened as though they had never been scrubbed with a salted rag. Oddly enough, that smile still wasn’t as unpleasant as the knight’s. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Bae didn’t like that one bit. If he went through with this crazy scheme, the only way he could guarantee his and Papa’s safety was by keeping the Dark One’s dagger. But then all it would take was one slip - one mistake - for her to reclaim her dagger and take revenge.

“Can I think about it?” he asked.

“Sleep on it, if you must,” she offered magnanimously. Her voice had lowered back to a whisper. “I’ll be back in the morning to hear your answer. But remember,” she cautioned, “I have all the time in the world. You only have until tomorrow night if you want to follow my plan.” Before he could say anything, she was gone in a puff of purple smoke, her final words echoing in her ears.

“Sleep well, boy.”

******

He didn’t.

Wanting to let Papa rest and recover from his injury, Bae had slept on the floor, curling up under both of their cloaks in front of the hearth. The hard packed dirt floor held no warmth in the spring night, and the half-rotted straw strewn about the floor needed to be swept out and replaced. Was this really how Papa slept every night while Bae slumbered on the relative luxury of a straw-stuffed mattress? He wondered if this explained why Papa woke up with stiff joints every morning.

Even if he’d taken the bed, though, his thoughts wouldn’t have allowed him much rest. He didn’t like the Dark One’s proposal. An evil being like her couldn’t be trusted to keep her word once she’d gotten what she wanted. But what choice did he have? Could he really leave his Papa behind - alone, helpless, and loathed by their entire town?

And then there was something else the Dark One had said. She hadn’t just said that she could keep Bae safe. She’d implied that she could end the Ogres War altogether. Wouldn’t it be incredible to bring peace to the Frontlands? Wouldn’t it be amazing to reunite all of the fractured families and give everyone a reason to celebrate for the first time in nearly fifteen years?

Wouldn’t it be nice to be a hero? To be  _ everyone’s _ hero? Even if nobody in the world knew it was him, wouldn’t it be nice to have the secret knowledge that he’d saved thousands of people through his bravery?

But nothing was stopping the Dark One from slaughtering all of those people, either. She  _ was _ evil, after all. If she was evil, and the ogres were evil, it stood to reason that they’d be on the same side. Right?

He was thinking himself in circles, and giving himself a headache in the process. Eventually, he gave up on trying, and occupied himself by sorting through one of several baskets of wool that cluttered the dirt floor. Laying his cloak on the floor, he spread the wool over the clean surface and started picking through it, pulling out clumps of dirt, bugs, short fibers, and felted bits. It was dirty work, but it had to be done. This particular sheep must have gotten caught in a briar bush, because there were thorns tangled in the wool. He carefully extricated each one, his experienced fingers plucking each thorn free without pricking himself once.

Once he finished, he pulled the carding brushes from their place near Papa’s spinning wheel and got to work combing through the wool. The process soothed his troubled thoughts. He’d spent many a quiet night sitting at Papa’s feet, carding wool while Papa spun. The gentle rasp of the carding brushes, the squeak of the wheel, Papa’s gentle burr weaving stories where the right thing was always clear and obvious, the hero’s courage never faltered, and good always triumphed over evil. Those had been some of the happiest moments of his life.

“Bae?” Papa sat up in bed with a pained hiss, his hand gripping his head where the bandages covered his wound. “What… how…?” He glanced frantically around the hut, only relaxing once his eyes settled on Bae. “Bae. You’re here. Thank the gods,” he sighed, settling back down in the straw-stuffed pillow. “How did we get here, son? I don’t remember anything after…” He trailed off, his cheeks darkening.

“You took a nasty hit to the head,” Bae hastened to explain. “Those bas… uh, knights,” he corrected himself at Papa’s sharp look, “rode off after. The old beggar woman from earlier helped me bring you home, and bandaged your wound.” He decided not to tell Papa about the beggar’s true identity. All it would do is worry him. 

Papa looked around the hut. “Where is she now?” he asked.

“She… left.” Bae quashed the surge of guilt he felt at keeping things from Papa. It wasn’t technically lying, but it still felt wrong. “I gave her some soup to thank her for her help.”

“Good lad.” Despite his praise, Bae didn’t miss the way his eyes darted worriedly to the soup  pot. His thumb fidgeted against his forefinger, as it always did when he was anxious or preoccupied with something. His head lowering in shame, he muttered, “I’m sorry you had to see that last night, son.”

Bae swallowed, allowing himself to really think about how it had felt to see his father humiliate himself like that. He’d known for a long time now that Papa was a meek, frightened man, and that for some reason the entire town hated him for it. Nobody ever really talked about it, and Bae couldn’t bring himself to ask anyone. 

But there was a huge difference between knowing his father was a… he couldn’t even bring himself to think the word. It was different to see him groveling at a man’s feet, was all. “I just wish that man hadn’t hurt you, Papa.”

“Oh, Bae.” Papa’s smile was a sad, crooked thing, but it still warmed Bae’s heart to see it. “I’d do that and more if it meant keeping you safe. I’d do anything for you, son.”

Anything, Bae now knew, including risk his life for him. That just didn’t add up with the tale of cowardice the knight had told last night. “Is it true?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Is it true you - you ran?”

Pleading brown eyes met his. “I had no choice, son.”

“And mama?” he persisted. “Did she leave you like the knight said? You told me she was dead!”

Those warm eyes immediately shuttered, closing off as they always did when Bae asked about his mother. Papa lowered his head, his hair flopping into his eyes. “She is dead,” he whispered.

Bae looked at his father - really looked at him. His clothes were worn and threadbare, in even worse repair than Bae’s own. His cheekbones were more prominent than they’d been even days ago, and his chest looked sunken in where the neck of his tunic rode low. His face was lined with misery, his eyes devoid of hope.

Bae stood up, dusting dirt and hay from the knees of his trousers. “Why don’t I make us some breakfast? We’ve got some leftover soup.”

Papa looked longingly at the soup pot before his mouth firmed in a resolute line. “I’m fine, Bae. Why don’t you make some for yourself?”

Bae frowned worriedly. “You should eat too, Papa.”

Papa’s smile was tired, and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not very hungry just yet. I’ll eat later, once my headache’s faded a bit.”

Bae wasn’t fooled. If Papa didn’t eat with Bae, he probably wouldn’t eat at all. He couldn’t allow that to stand. He was finally starting to see just how much Papa sacrificed to keep him safe, warm and fed. 

“Let me go out and see if I can find something new to eat,” he offered. “Maybe I can find some wild mushrooms. Or maybe Daisy laid an egg or two!” They both knew she hadn’t; their one hen hadn’t laid so much as an undersized egg in months. They were waiting until summer to slaughter her, when they could fatten her up a bit first.

Without waiting for Papa to say anything, Bae grabbed an empty basket and hurried out of the hut into the gray, pre-dawn morning. The moist spring air made him shiver. His cloak was still on the floor, and needed to be washed free of the accumulated grime he’d plucked from the wool before it could be worn again.

Tromping through the tall grass, hoping to find something to eat - greens, mushrooms,  _ anything  _ \- he glanced around. A low mist obscured anything more than twenty paces away. Nobody was out this early in the day; the first cock had yet to crow, and everyone was still abed. There wasn’t a witness in sight.

“Dark One?” he asked softly. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

That cold whisper sent a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with the chilly morning air or the dew soaking his trousers to the knees. Looking up, he saw that familiar figure cloaked in royal blue, hood pulled up to obscure her face. Her face was obscured in blackness except for those unnerving silver eyes, which nearly glowed in the early morning gloom.

“I - I’ll do it.” Those eyes narrowed in the depths of her hood. “But not for free. If I’m going to help you, I need something in return.”

For a long moment, the Dark One said nothing. Then, clawed, silvery hands pushed her hood back. Bae blinked in surprise. Instead of the angry, suspicious look he expected, her lips spread in an eager grin.

“Name your price,” she whispered, “and perhaps we can make a deal.”

Fear skittered up Bae’s spine, making him shiver again. He hoped he knew what he was doing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a scene that may be triggering for some people. Please skip to the bottom note if you have concerns, as I'll go into a bit more detail.

“Name your price,” she whispered, “and perhaps we can make a deal.”

Baelfire took a deep, shuddering breath, shivering in the early morning breeze. In the gray pallor of pre-dawn, the Dark One’s silver-gray skin looked almost human. If he squinted, he could pretend that he was simply haggling with a highborn lady, instead of a powerful dark mage he knew next to nothing about. Before yesterday, his knowledge of the Dark One had been limited to “works for the Duke,” “has powerful magic at his disposal,” and “may be incredibly old.” Now, though he’d met her twice, he had little more understanding than before. He could add things like “is a woman,” “can choke people with her mind,” and “has issues projecting her voice” to that list. Anything else was either rumor, or information he’d heard directly from her (and therefore couldn’t be trusted).

He was out of his depth here. But there was no one else who could help.

“So… you need this magic dagger,” he began, fighting the urge to fidget nervously. “And for some insane reason, you need me to do it.”

“I told you,” she whispered with an impatient look, “I can’t--”

“I know, I know. You can’t get it yourself.” The look she gave Bae was absolutely murderous. “But that doesn’t explain why you came to me and Papa. We’re just peasants. Nobodies.”

“Interrupt me again, boy, and I’ll show you the meaning of pain,” she hissed. 

Bae looked at the Dark One’s expression - the cold fire in her eyes, the gnashing teeth - and thought that maybe he’d pushed things too far. He needed to put up a strong front to keep from being taken advantage of. But he also needed to remember that he was dealing with someone who could kill him as easily as squishing a bug under her boot.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, bending at the waist in an unpracticed bow. “Please forgive my rudeness,Dark One.”

“Better,” she huffed, seemingly mollified. 

“So… why us?” Bae persisted, hoping he wasn’t pressing his luck.

Her lips pressed in a thin line, but she no longer seemed ready to rip his head off with her bare hands. He hoped that was a good sign. “I wanted to deal with someone desperate,” she grudgingly admitted. “Someone with no time to waste and nothing to lose, who could be led to do what I needed without question. Instead I’m forced to make a deal with a nosy, meddlesome child.” One bare, silvery arm darted out from the arm slit in her cloak, her hand gripping his chin. Her black claws dug into his cheeks painfully. “No more questions. I’ll ask you again: what is your price?”

Bae stared helplessly into those cold, reptilian eyes. The cold fingers of fear clenching around his heart warred with the anger burning in his belly. This wasn’t  _ fair. _ How was a kid like him supposed to deal with the Dark One? He was just trying to figure out what was  _ right. _ But he couldn’t do that without the right information! 

“Last night you said you could end the Ogres War. If I get the dagger for you, I want you to end it.” The Dark One smirked calculatingly, and he hastily added, “I want you to get rid of all the ogres, so no more kids like me have to die. No killing any human soldiers.”

“Damn. Must you ruin all my fun?” Despite her words, that unnerving smile never left her face. She released her grip on his chin, her bare arm slipping back into her velvet cloak. “So - you will infiltrate the Duke’s castle, retrieve my dagger, and bring it to me. In exchange, I will eliminate the ogres, thus ending the war and the conscription of children. Do you accept?”

“Wait.” The first golden rays of dawn finally penetrated the ever-present fires to the east. They were running out of time. “If I give you your dagger back, you can’t hurt me or my Papa. Ever.”

The Dark One nodded her head. “Very well,” she whispered. “No harm will come to you or your papa by my word or deed.  _ Do you accept? _ ”

Bae hesitated. He had the nagging feeling like there was something he was missing - some key information that should sway him one way or the other. But even if the Dark One hadn’t threatened him for asking questions, he had no idea what question to ask.

Helplessly, he nodded. He had no other choice.

“Good.” The sun finally cleared the horizon, casting red and gold highlights in her lustrous brown hair. The first cock crowed; soon others would join it, and the townsfolk would leave their houses, ready to start their day. Bae’s heart sank; even though he’d seen the Dark One in the daylight yesterday, a small part of him had hoped that the first cock’s crow at dawn would banish her like the evil spirits in Papa’s stories. “If you follow my instructions exactly, we’ll both be the richer for it.”

******

Rumpelstiltskin sat up with a groan, clutching his head in an attempt to dispel the throbbing headache and slight dizziness. He couldn’t remember Hordor’s sabaton connecting with his brow, but apparently the knight’s legs were stronger than the last time they’d met. Clearly the Knight-Captain had moved up in the world in more ways than one in the past fifteen years. At least one of them had.

As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, he felt something shift in his sleeve. He reached inside, and pulled out… a red rose. Of course. The flower from the beggar woman last night. Somehow, the flower had survived last night’s rough treatment without losing so much as a single petal. He wondered where she’d gotten it; roses didn’t generally bloom this early in the year. Perhaps she’d stolen it from some rich lord’s hothouse.

He ran one calloused thumb over a soft outer petal. In the end, he didn’t really care where it had come from; it was the first gift he’d received in years. The pretty rocks Bae had collected for him as a child still held a cherished place in a small box near his spinning wheel, and he liked to imagine that the snails the precocious boy had brought him were still tending their meager vegetable garden. The old beggar couldn’t have known how much that little kindness meant to him. But it did.

He frowned as he remembered the haggard old crone. She had to be ninety years old if she was a day - a rare feat even in times of peace. An old beggar woman without a coin to spare, who still had enough charity in her heart to help a lame coward and his son. And her eyes… He’d barely been able to make out her features in the flickering light of his lamp, but there was something about those striking blue eyes. Like a half-remembered dream.

Gods, was he truly so starved for affection that even a meaningless gesture from a stranger left him feeling exposed and vulnerable? How pathetic.

With a ragged sigh, he began his daily ritual of rubbing the previous day’s tension from his ankle and foot. He started at his mid-calf, familiar fingers seeking and massaging the various kinks and knots beneath the ruined, scarred tissue as he gradually moved downward. As he reached his ankle, he flexed his toes against the cramp forming in the arch of his foot, grimacing when his muscles seized. He worked his foot, flexing and pointing, until the muscles relaxed. Once he’d massaged everything from his calf to the tips of his toes, he rolled his ankle experimentally. It was better, but still stiffer and more painful than usual. His walk in the woods last night had done him no favors.

There would be no fleeing tonight. Not for him.

Panic welled in his chest once more, tightening his throat and making his hands tremble. Two days. He had two days left with his boy. He should have a year -  _ a full fucking year! _ \- left with Bae, and instead he had only  _ two days. _ Two days until the knights returned to take his son away from him. Two days until his beautiful boy was torn limb from limb and stuffed in an ogre’s cookpot. Two days until Rumpelstiltskin’s life ended.

Tears of impotent rage filled his eyes. It wasn’t  _ fair. _ The ogres had taken  _ everything _ from him. His leg. His courage (or rather, his dream of ever having courage). His wife. His ability to provide for his family. And now, they were going to take his son. It was all the ogres’ fault. The ogres, and that damnable Seer.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled him out of his thoughts, and he quickly dashed the tears from his eyes. Bad enough Bae had seen him humiliate himself last night, and they’d needed to rely on an elderly beggar woman to drag his sorry self home. He didn’t need to see his papa crying, too.

Bae burst into the hut with a basket full of greenery, nearly tearing the cloth door covering where it was nailed to the threshold. “I’m back, Papa!” he cried, setting the basket down on the worn wooden table with a rustle. “Daisy didn’t lay any eggs, but I managed to find some things to eat.” While Rumpelstiltskin planted his walking staff on the ground and struggled to his feet, Bae started pulling things out of the basket and laying them out. 

Coming over to investigate, Rumpelstiltskin looked over the bounty with a critical eye. Sure enough, Bae had found a variety of good things to eat. The ramps would add flavor to their bland, watery soup, and he’d found some morel mushrooms and fiddleheads for roasting. There wasn’t much use for the red clover blossoms just yet, but if Rumpelstiltskin could scrounge together the coin to buy flour from the miller, he could make a fine, hearty bread with floral notes. Best of all were the dandelions. The greens could be eaten, and the roots made an invigorating beverage when roasted and steeped in boiling water. The flowers, when infused with oil, made a decent salve for his ankle when they couldn’t afford to buy a better one from the village healer, Vivienne (which was usually the case).

On any other day, such a find would be cause for celebration. This was enough food to supplement their ever-dwindling supply for a few more days. Rumpelstiltskin could eat today without worrying about taking food from Bae’s mouth down the road. A good stroke of luck; Bae was getting more observant by the day. It wouldn’t be long before he started noticing just how often his papa seemed to lack an appetite.

But none of that mattered any longer. Bae would be gone in two days’ time. Rumpelstiltskin wouldn’t need to worry about keeping his boy fed any longer. He wouldn’t have anything to worry about, because he would have nothing to live for. His life was crumbling to dust in his hands, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

That thought had the tears welling up in his eyes. He needed to think of something else, quickly. “Where did you find all of this, Bae?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

Bae fidgeted anxiously with a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. “I, uh, I talked to Vivienne.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart sank. He was known around town as many things. Coward. Cripple. Cuckold. But  _ never _ a beggar. “Bae…”

“I didn’t get this from her!” he was quick to add. “She just… saw me foraging, and… pointed me to a good spot in the forest. You know how good she is at woodscraft.”

He did. The village healer had come here six years ago - three years after he’d lost Milah - and had turned the entire town on its ear. Her tracking, foraging and snaring skills were second to none, and her healing abilities were nearly miraculous. She was also the boldest, most outspoken young woman he’d ever met. She spoke to him no differently than she spoke to anyone else in town - haranguing him for not taking better care of his health, and threatening to thump him with her walking stick if he didn’t heed her words.

Vivienne was the only person in town, apart from Bae, who treated him like a human being. In his loneliest hours, he’d allowed himself to dream of earning her friendship, and perhaps more. But… honestly, she rather frightened him.

“I suppose that’s alright,” he allowed grudgingly. “Why don’t I take some of this and make us breakfast?”

“No!” Bae swept his findings back into the basket, carrying it off to the hearth. “I mean… l-let me do it. You’re still hurt from last night.”

Rumpelstiltskin fought to keep his face neutral. He’d tried enough of Bae’s attempts at cooking to know that that was a very bad idea. “I appreciate the thought, son, but--”

Pleading brown eyes met his. “Please, Papa? I… I need something to keep me busy.” 

Of course. Bae must be just as anxious about his birthday as Rumpelstiltskin was. How could he possibly begrudge his son the chance to distract himself from his heavy thoughts? Surely that was worth an unpalatable meal or two. “Sure, Bae. Anything you want.”

While Bae busied himself with their breakfast, Rumpelstiltskin checked on the wool roving that Bae had worked on while he slept. As always, his son did an excellent job cleaning and preparing the wool. He limped over to his spinning wheel and prepared the roving for spinning. 

This would be the last time he would ever spin wool prepared by Bae’s hand.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the burn of tears, he focused on his craft: the feel of the roving sliding between his thumb and forefinger, the gentle rhythm of the treadle under his foot, the bobbin’s hypnotic spin. It transported him back to happier days, learning to spin under his aunties’ watchful eyes. Their care for him had been a balm in the face of his father’s neglect and abandonment. In that house, the world had been a warmer, simpler place.

All too soon, Bae was pulling him from his trance to eat. That sad soup from last night now had savory, green cuts of ramp, as well as sliced morels. A bowl of this would be far more nourishing than anything they’d eaten in weeks.

It was also somehow, inexplicably, burnt.

Rumplestiltskin accepted the wooden bowl and spoon from his son, electing to eat at his wheel. The mushrooms were soggy, the greens undercooked, and there was an odd new flavor underneath the bitterness of the blackened bits. Was that… peppermint? No, not peppermint, but something similar. He choked the mixture down, grateful to at least have a full belly. 

As he tilted the bowl to his lips to drink down the rest of the bitter, herbal broth, he was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Eyes drooping, he looked confusedly around their little hut. What was happening? Before he could give speech to his wonder, Bae had a shoulder under his arm, leading him to the cot. Rumpelstiltskin’s foot came down wrong. He hissed, but the pain felt distant. Far away.

“Bae?” he slurred. “Whass goin’ on?”

“Sorry, Papa,” his son said, pushing Rumpelstiltskin, unresisting, down on the straw-stuffed mattress. “There’s something I have to do, and I can’t let you stop me.”

Rumpelstiltskin tried to reach for his son to grab him. Stop him. Something. But his arms wouldn’t cooperate. They were too heavy. His eyelids were too heavy. Everything was too…

******

Baelfire ruthlessly quashed the guilt twisting in his gut. Drugging his Papa had been necessary in order for him to sneak out of the house unnoticed. Still, he resented the Dark One for making him do this. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just… magic Papa asleep, or make a decoy of Bae to take his place, or something. Why did he have to do everything himself?

As he shifted Papa to a more comfortable position on the cot, he caught sight of a flash of red in his hand. It was the flower the Dark One had given him. Why had she done such a thing? Was there some sort of magic in the bloom, and if so, could it hurt his papa? He tried to pluck the rose from his father’s fingers, but Papa’s fingers tightened on the stem, and he moaned softly in protest.

Reluctantly, Bae let it be. It hadn’t hurt him yet, after all. Maybe the rose was just a rose. Besides, he needed to get going if he was to reach the Duke’s castle before nightfall.

He grabbed Papa’s belt from where it hung on a peg on the wall, fastening it around his own waist. He had to notch it in a looser hole than the well-worn one that Papa used. Was his father really so thin? Why hadn’t he noticed before now? 

He shook his head to clear it of troubling thoughts. He needed to focus. Once the Ogres War was over, he could worry about Papa’s health. He took the rest of the sleeping herb he’d bought from Vivienne with the silver coin the Dark One had given him, stuffing it into an empty belt pouch. It was instrumental to the Dark One’s plan, after all. Wrapping himself in his papa’s cloak, he hiked it up as best he could to keep the hem from trailing on the ground.

Striding to the doorway, he paused long enough to look over his shoulder. Papa’s face was slack with repose, his gentle snoring barely audible over the sound of Bae’s pounding heart.

“Sorry, Papa,” he repeated. “I’ll be back before you waken.” He hoped he would. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

******

Belle watched the curly-haired boy make his way from the local healer’s hut back to his own hovel, his basket overflowing with greenery. The silver coins she’d given him should be more than enough to furnish the child with enough sleeping herb to make a small battalion sleep through an ogre attack. Whether the peasant boy did as she directed remained to be seen. As much as she would have liked to accompany him to ensure his obedience, she wanted to call no attention to the boy before it was time. He needed to be free to slip from the town and infiltrate Duke Emrys’s kitchen undetected.

As though her thoughts summoned her master’s regard, a voice sounded in her head:  _ Beast! Heel _ Baring her blackened teeth in a furious rictus, she disappeared, rematerializing in the Duke’s audience chamber with a theatrical plume of aubergine smoke. Obeying one of the dozens of standing orders enforced by the dagger, she knelt on the wooden floor before the Duke’s throne, one bare knee peeking out through the slit in her cloak. “How may I serve, master?” she whispered.

"Oh, speak the fuck up; you know I bloody hate straining to hear you,” the middle-aged man snapped from where he lounged indolently on his throne. His steel-gray hair was swept back from his face, just barely brushing the shoulders of his fine silk tunic. His clothes were of the finest make, perfectly tailored and embroidered elaborately with thread of gold. The ermine cape bearing his family crest had been cast off at some point, lying on the floor in a crumpled heap.

“How may I serve, master?” she repeated, projecting her voice as commanded.

Duke Emrys took a gulp of wine from his bejeweled goblet. A small rivulet ran down his weak chin to drip on his chest. “Mm. Better,” he muttered. “Now what’s this I hear about you failing to appear before Knight-Commander Samson this morning?”

Belle kept her face carefully schooled to blankness. She’d known that this was a very real possibility when she came up with this plan. When she’d first been enslaved by the Duke five years ago, he’d commanded her to stay absolutely still and do nothing - not even breathe. While her heart pounded in her chest and her lungs screamed for oxygen, he, with the aid of his councillors, had laid so many standing orders on her that she couldn’t so much as scratch her nose without his permission.

Over time, those restrictions had gradually relaxed as the Duke realized that having a powerful mage as his personal slave did little good if she wasn’t free to actually serve him. And so, instead of being forbidden from doing any magic at all without express permission from the Duke, she was merely restricted from casting spells on anyone but herself, unless he or one of his most trusted knights gave the order. And as such, the order to speak to no one but the Duke had been relaxed somewhat, as well.

Finally, a mere week ago, the moment she’d spent five years hoping for had arrived. The ogres had somehow discovered that the Duke’s armies communicated with courier pigeons and ravens. Despite being blind, the monsters had incredible aim throwing stones, and had taken out nearly all communications. The ensuing chaos had resulted in the utter decimation of the human armies, and the lowering of the conscription age. One of the Duke’s advisors had pointed out that the Dark One’s ability to transport herself instantly to different encampments would allow her to act as a messenger in place of their avian messengers. And so, the geas prohibiting Belle from speaking with strangers had been lifted, leaving her able to communicate with anyone she didn’t consider a friend or ally. Of course, friends and allies of the Dark One were in short supply.

And with that, the time had come to act. She’d just needed to find someone desperate enough to help her. If only that idiot knight hadn’t knocked him out cold, forcing her to deal with his overly-inquisitive son. In dealing with him this morning, her absence had been noted. She would need to approach this very carefully.

“I was checking in with a potential flight risk,” she said cautiously. The dagger would not allow her to lie outright, but she could skirt the edges of the truth. “The boy comes of age in two days, and he thought to run. Captain Hordor caught him last night. I was simply ensuring that the boy will do as he is bid.”

“Hmm.” Emrys’s eyes, a brown so dark they were nearly black, gazed at her consideringly. His fingers traced one of the jewels on his cup idly. “This boy. A great warrior, is he?”

Belle swallowed. “No.”

“No…?”

“No… master.”

“Hmm.” Belle’s heart sank. The Duke was not a pensive man. When he spoke like this - thoughtful hums interspersed with pointed questions - it meant that he was displeased, and simply leading the target of his ire to some foregone conclusion. “So would you say that this boy was worth the two hundred soldiers I lost in an easily-avoided ambush this morning?”

“No, master.”

“I see.” Those penetrating eyes cast about the room, taking in everything - the stone walls, the ornate tapestries (carefully not settling on the one behind his throne), the dozen advisors in their ornate robes carefully lined up on either side of him - before settling on the roaring fire in the hearth. “Awfully warm in here, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally. “The weather has taken a rather sultry turn. Perhaps I should have bid the servants leave the hearth unlit today.” The weather had done no such thing; the day had dawned colder today than it had all week. “You must be warm, Beast. Your cloak. Remove it.”

Helpless to resist a direct order, Belle banished her cloak to her cell in the dungeons. Had she still been susceptible to cold, she might have shivered as the chill air of the audience chamber hit her bare skin. As it was, shame burned hot in her face as his advisors snickered audibly behind their hands.

One of the last orders Duke Emrys had given her on that first day was that she was forbidden from wearing clothes. In that moment, she’d feared what the nature of her servitude to the odious man would be. But he’d made apparent his utter disgust at her form - her scaled skin, her reptilian eyes, her blackened teeth, the claws that tipped her fingers and toes - from the very first moment. Rape, to her great relief, was not on his agenda. 

Humiliation, however, was.

Ostensibly, the ban on clothing was to prevent her from secreting a weapon or magical implement on her person. In actuality, this was a form of punishment. In the public eye, Belle was allowed a cloak to preserve not her modesty, but the Duke’s reputation. Nobody would be intimidated by a Dark One who huddled in a corner trying in vain to cover her nudity from scornful eyes. In private, the Duke would force her to banish her cloak when he was displeased with her, inviting his advisors to share in the joke of her naked form. If she was lucky, that was all he would do.

“You should smile more,” he advised her. “You’d be much… well. Not prettier, certainly, but less repulsive if you smiled.” He waited for a long moment. She kept her face neutral, her own private act of rebellion. “Smile, Beast. And keep those vile teeth hidden.”

She smiled. Under the dagger’s thrall, she could do no less. Her traitorous blush deepened further, and her hands fisted at her sides to keep from shaking.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

Belle thought fondly back to her meal yesterday. The soup had been flavorless, but warm, the stale crust of bread filling. And the apple, though soft and bruised, had still retained a hint of tartness that made her mouth water. It was the best meal she’d had in years. “You last fed me three days ago, master,” she hedged.

“Hmm.” Her heart, which had sank to her stomach previously, was now somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. It seemed that her punishment wasn’t over. “Well, that won’t do. Can’t have my prize beast too weak to perform its parlor tricks, now can we?” He rang a bell, and a liveried servant strode forth with a large wooden bowl, setting it down before Belle’s knees. The servant girl, her hair split in two thick, blonde braids, held her eyes for a brief moment before backing away, bowing deferentially to the Duke.

The sight that greeted her was exactly what she expected. Pig slops. A vile mixture of vegetable peels, half-eaten fruit, bits of gristle from last night’s dinner, and various other additions. Disgusting.

The first few times he’d found inventive ways to punish her for perceived failures, Belle had refused, until the dagger had forced her to do his bidding. Next came the threats. For a while, she cursed his name and his parentage. When he remained unmoved, she even resorted to begging. 

Now there was only quiet acceptance.

“Eat,” he ordered.

She did, crunching reluctantly on cucumber peels. Thankfully, the servant who had brought the bowl had taken scraps from the top of the slop bucket.. She always did little things to ease Belle’s punishments where she could without being caught. Accepting the pity of a ten year old peasant girl galled her. But it was still better than being “served” by an older, angrier drudge who took their rage at the Duke out on the Dark One by scraping from the bottom of the bucket.

The mortified blush never left her face as she choked down the leavings of other people’s meals. This type of punishment - one where Belle was forced to demean herself - was the Duke’s favorite. Unlike his other servants, he couldn’t have her whipped for insubordination; the welts healed as fast as they were inflicted. But being degraded stayed with Belle for days. Even worse - though her immortal body couldn’t starve to death, it still craved nourishment after days without food. It rejoiced at being fed even as her mind rebelled against being publicly shamed.

As she reached the bottom of the bowl, she paused. She’d eaten everything except for a lump of congealed porridge at the bottom. She couldn’t abide the texture of cold porridge. She looked up at the Duke, praying he hadn’t noticed.

He grinned smugly. He had. “Well? Finish it.”

With a pained grimace, she shoved the ball of glop in her mouth. The cold porridge had taken on a thick, gluey texture that clung to every surface of her mouth. She tried to force it down, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. Her eyes watered, and her throat tightened.

“ _ Swallow. _ ” 

She forced it down; there was nothing else she could do. The glop stuck in her throat, and her stomach rebelled. She vomited noisily, the regurgitated slops splattering on the wooden floor before her. Smothered titters came from the row of advisors before her. When the heaving passed, Belle raised watery eyes to her jailer.

His lip was curled in disgust. “Clean yourself up,” he commanded. She whisked the mess away with a thought. “Go to your cell, and stay there until sunset. There’s a full moon tonight, and I’m throwing a ball to show off the latest addition to my menagerie. You’re to entertain my guests with your little parlor tricks.” As she stood up, his nose wrinkled as though he’d smelled something foul, though no trace of the mess remained. “And for gods’ sakes, spare our eyes and cover yourself!”

Belle whisked herself back to her cell, the welcome weight of her velvet cloak rematerializing around her. Perching on the edge of her mildewy cot, she hugged her arms around her sore middle. Some unfamiliar emotion bloomed in her chest. It wasn’t hope, or bravery; there was no room for those in a slave’s life. Maybe it was grim resolve, or just sheer, bullheaded obstinacy. Whatever it was, it would get her through tonight.

“Just one more night,” she whispered, so softly she could barely hear herself. “One more night, and I’ll finally be free.”

******

Bae bustled around the castle kitchen, doing his best to follow orders while avoiding the head cook’s wooden spoon. Judging by the pristine state of the utensil, its main function was rapping knuckles and heads, rather than actually stirring anything.

Getting into the castle had been ludicrously easy. As the Dark One had instructed, all he had to do was claim he’d been hired on for the Duke’s ball tonight, and he’d been ushered right in. Apparently it was common for the castle to take on extra staff while the Duke held extravagant balls.

Bae’s mouth was nearly slavering at all of the delicious smells that surrounded him. This morning, he’d stupidly drugged the entire pot of soup before thinking of ladling himself a bowl, so he hadn’t eaten anything since last night. His fingers itched to snag a delicious morsel or two: a bit of crackling from the boar roasting on the spit, or a canape, or a spoonful of the thick stew bubbling over the fire. But he needed to lay low until he could creep off to the enormous cauldron in the far corner.

The heat of the fires, combined with the press of bodies in the cramped chamber, made the kitchen unbearably hot. Bae’s threadbare clothes stuck unpleasantly to his chest and legs, and his toes were cramping in the tight confines of his boots. The gnawing feeling in his stomach was a distraction in and of itself, and he also hadn’t slept last night. All in all, he was miserable.

“You! Boy!” Bae jumped as the head cook brandished her spoon at him. “You’ve managed to ruin everything you’ve touched! Do us all a favor, and stay out of the way. Go stir the mulled wine.”

Unable to believe his luck, Bae made his way over to his destination, dodging around bustling staff carrying heavy trays. In the corner, the cauldron was full near to overflowing with red wine being mulled with various foreign fruits and spices he’d never even heard of. The sweet, tangy, spicy scent made his head swim.

With a quick glance around to verify that nobody was looking, Bae pulled the small pouch of sleeping herb from his belt pouch and dumped the contents into the cauldron, stirring them in quickly before anyone could notice. The smell of the herb was nearly undetectable under all of the other flavors.

Now all he had to do was wait for the ball to begin and the drinks to start flowing. It was almost too easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, continued from the top: There is a scene that contains some pretty heavy humiliation (and not the fun, sexy kind). It also features force-feeding, which may be upsetting for some readers. If you think this will bother you, once you reach the phrase "Belle watched the curly-haired boy," use the search function (Ctrl-F) to find "Bae bustled around the castle kitchen" to skip the scene. I don't think it's vital to the overall plot, but will establish a bit of how much of a monster the Duke is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: I'm going to be playing fast and incredibly loose with canon. That's probably obvious, given how Belle couldn't have been the Dark One before Rumpel, since she wasn't born back then. I'll be keeping a few things accurate, changing others so they're barely recognizable from their source content, and making others up of whole cloth. If you have any questions, or spot any inconsistencies, feel free to hit me up here or in my Ask box on Tumblr.

Belle stared unblinkingly at the throng of nobles in the gardens of the castle courtyard from the depths of her hood, taking small pleasure in the way the puffed-up aristocrats flinched away from her. They tried not to appear obvious in their cowering, of course; they just happened to completely reverse direction when the Dark One came within a few paces. It had nothing at all to do with her unnerving, assessing gaze, or her casual use of magic.

As always, she was forbidden from performing magic on any person other than herself. Still, that left her with plenty of options to entertain the masses. She could summon wisps to dance about the room, casting their gentle, azure light in the gems woven in a lady’s coiffure. Making items levitate, disappear and rematerialize took a minimal toll on her magical strength, and drew more gasps of wonder and awe than the trick deserved. After a few drinks, one or two particularly intrepid souls might come to her for a palm reading. Not that she knew anything of the art, of course, but her talents for reading a soul’s desires would allow her to bluff her way through. As Duke Emrys said - parlor tricks.

And then, of course, she could ensure that every last dainty golden goblet had a ready supply of the hopefully drugged wine.

Of course, this relied on the boy actually upholding his end of the bargain. For all she knew, he’d chosen to renege on their agreement. She has no way of knowing whether he was even here. The rose she’d plucked from the Duke’s garden last night had been enchanted with a specific purpose. The spell ensured that as long as the bearer kept the token in his possession, she could track his exact location. She’d gifted it to the lame spinner, thinking that he would be the one to free her. The bloom currently lay uselessly in the spinner’s hovel. For all she knew, the child could be halfway to Glowerhaven by now.

If he was, he would live to regret it. Once his birthday came and went, he would be a fugitive. The Duke’s protection from her magic didn’t extend to fugitives. He’d soon find that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned… particularly when that woman housed an ancient evil in her soul.

Enough. Either the boy was here, or he was not. Until she learned otherwise, she would carry on as though everything was going according to plan.

Her lips curled derisively at the merriment all around her. Minstrels plucked lutes or played merrily on their pipes. Servants carrying trays of delicacies wove in and out of the crowds, offering nibbles to any who wanted one. And all around, the nobility laughed and danced and carried on as though the world wasn’t ending just outside the castle walls.

It was a familiar sight. Fields burning, people starving, children dying - and all the while, lords and ladies luxuriated in plenty, growing fat on the pain of decent folk. Even after centuries, nothing in this world truly changed.

Of course, there was one difference from the soirées of her distant memory. The main attraction of the Duke’s parties was always the same: a new addition to his “menagerie.” And tonight was no different. The assembled lords and ladies meandered the Duke’s collection, captivated by the novelty of the caged creatures. How they could look directly at these cages, see the beings housed within, and give no notice to the fact that each was imprisoned against its will was beyond Belle’s understanding.

She gazed unflinchingly at the creatures now. And why not? She was one of them, after all, her prison no less binding than theirs. She may have more room to move than the red-haired mermaid did in her undersized tank, and she lacked the cold iron shackles that bound the magic of the little brunette fairy in the pink dress. But she paced the limits of her confines no less than the leonine, fire-maned creature in its slatted metal cage. All of the prisoners - among them an ash-blonde siren, a starry-eyed dwarf with a bald pate, a unicorn, and a Gorgon with a blindfold that Belle had magically affixed herself - looked as miserable and hopeless as she felt. Of course, none of this was her concern. She was getting herself out. They could all do the same.

She wondered what tonight’s new attraction would be. Usually, Duke Emrys preferred to announce his newest acquisition at the beginning of the night. He would display the creature on the dais at the center of the courtyard so all could see. Best to give his guests ample time and space to gawk, after all. Tonight, however, the newest cage was obscured by a large cloth. The sun had gone down beyond the rim of the horizon, and the final hues of orange and pink were just fading in the west, when the Duke stepped up on the dais in the light of the full moon. A hush fell over the celebration.

He raised his glass in the air. “My friends! It’s truly wonderful to see you all in good health and fine spirits. These trying times have impacted us all. As always, your continued contributions to the war effort are appreciated. With a few more offensive pushes, I anticipate a swift end to the ogre threat.”

A likely story. Belle could have eradicated the ogre threat with one single “offensive push” of her own, had the Duke been so inclined. She didn’t bother smothering her derisive snort just before the gathered throng burst into dignified applause. The Duke shot her a venomous glare, but said nothing. He wouldn’t interrupt his moment in the sun. She would pay for that later.  _ If _ things didn’t go to plan.

“I thank you all for your patience in the unveiling of my newest acquisition,” he continued once the clapping died down. “I think you’ll find that it can be best appreciated under the moonlight.” With no further ceremony, he whipped the cover off of the cage, revealing…

A girl.

A young woman, Belle amended. The pale, willowy brunette appeared to be roughly the same age Belle had been when she’d taken on the curse of the Dark One. Apart from the beauty of her features, she seemed utterly unremarkable next to the rest of the Duke’s collection. Her simple peasant’s dress was torn and bloodied, but the girl herself seemed unharmed. 

Desperately, the girl reached an arm beseechingly out of her cage, toward her apathetic audience. She wasted no time on the Duke; doubtless her pleas had already fallen on deaf ears. “Please,” she begged. “Please let me out of here. I’m just a normal girl. Not a monster or… or anything. Just a girl who lives with her granny out in the woods.”

A few of the nobles squirmed and murmured uneasily, and Belle suppressed a surge of impotent rage. This wasn’t the first time an attraction had begged for their freedom, and likely wouldn’t be the last. But it was the first time a captive had looked human enough to reach the blackened, withered husks that served as hearts for these bluebloods. The hypocrisy was sickening.

The taller woman’s eyes locked with Belle’s. No doubt sensing a kindred spirit in the fellow captive. Ridiculous. “Please,” she whispered.

Belle’s stomach churned - no doubt an aftereffect of sicking up earlier that morning. This girl’s plight was none of her concern. She couldn’t afford to jeopardise everything for some chit she’d never met.

She  _ couldn’t. _

Just as Belle decided to fade into the shadows of the courtyard, a change seemed to go through the girl. She fell to all fours, muscles spasming and convulsing as frightened screams were pulled from her throat. Her bones shifted and rearranged under her skin with audible snaps and pops. Milky white skin and wool dress were soon replaced with coarse, gray-black fur. The girl’s face elongated, fangs bursting forth from her newly formed snout, and her ears grew swept back and pointed. Fingers shortened into short stubs, and a tail shot out from the base of her spine.

Within moments, the girl was gone. A wolf had taken her place.

Belle watched with interest. She’d heard rumors of the existence of werewolves, of course, but she’d never seen one before.

For a few moments, the courtyard was held in spellbound silence. Then the she-wolf threw her head back and howled, and the crowd surged forward for a closer look at Duke Emrys’s newest curiosity. In their furor, none of the nobles noticed as one by one, the castle guards casually approached the refreshments table, snitching a handful of food here and there. More importantly, nobody noticed how each one snuck to the enormous cauldron of mulled wine and drank straight from the serving ladle. She’d no doubt that much of the kitchen staff had done the same before sending it out. 

Servant, sentinel or sovereign. All of humanity was the same - greedy, thoughtless, and utterly predictable. And with luck, that was about to work in her favor.

******

Bae wasn’t sure if he was ridiculously lucky, or if adults were a lot stupider than he gave them credit for. Weren’t they supposed to be smart, honest, and good?

Within moments of adding the sleeping herb to the wine, the head cook had come over to “make sure he wasn’t sneaking a tipple.” Her wooden spoon had finally been put to use as she took a few liberal sips herself. Soon most of the staff had done the same, adding another jug of wine to the brew to replenish what was drank. 

That had been nearly two hours ago, and the entire castle had since fallen silent. No music or laughter floated in through the courtyard windows. The regular footsteps of sentry guards, which had passed every ten minutes like clockwork, had been absent for the past thirty. It seemed that the only person working in the entire castle who hadn’t stolen a drink was the very person who had come to steal its master’s most valuable possession.

Just as Bae was steeling his nerves to creep out of the kitchen and toward the Duke’s audience chamber, a movement from the grate at the center of the kitchen floor caught his attention. A pair of wide, stubby hands gripped the grate from below and shoved. It came free with a loud grinding noise. Miraculously, the din didn’t wake any of the many servants collapsed in repose on the floor. A leather-capped head popped up through the hole and looked around the kitchen assessingly. His sandy-brown hair curled around his ears, and a mischievous smirk spread across his bearded, wide-nosed face.

“Sleepy bunch,” he muttered, chuckling at some private joke. Taking notice of Bae, he sobered. “Hey. Did you do this?” he asked, gesturing to the sleeping forms all around?

Bae couldn’t stop the guilty flush that spread across his face. “Uh…”

“No worries, kid, I’m not gonna snitch. I’ve only got one friend here, and I’m here to bust him out.” He craned his neck toward the kitchen entrance. “Is everyone else asleep, too?”

Scratching the fluffy curls at the back of his head, Bae said, “Maybe? I mean, I think so.”

“Then you just made my job a hell of a lot easier.” He climbed up out of the grate hole, offering a hand to Bae. The man was short - shorter than Papa, almost as short as Bae - and stoutly-built. He was dressed all in black: trousers, tunic, leather waistcoat and cap. “Name’s Stealthy.”

Bae clasped his hand and shook it. “I’m Baelfire,” he said. “Are… are you a dwarf?”

“What gave me away - the height or the beard?” he asked rhetorically. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Much as I’d like to stand around and gab, I’ve got a jailbreak to carry out. So unless you want to help…”

He considered for a minute. He needed to get his hands on that dagger; once he had that, he could end the Ogres War once and for all. He’d be a hero. But what kind of hero would leave hostages behind?

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Bae admitted, “but I’ll do what I can. I just need to make a stop first.”

Stealthy nodded. “Fair enough. Meet me in the courtyard when you’re done. I could use a lookout.”

Bae nodded. Both he and Stealthy hurried out of the kitchen, splitting in opposite directions at the first fork in the stone hallway. The castle was eerily silent in the dead of night but for the fires crackling in the torch sconces, casting flickering shadows over the stone walls. Following the directions the Dark One had given him this morning, he soon found himself in a large chamber. Apart from the throne on the raised dais on the far side of the room and the tapestries lining the walls, the room was completely empty.

Tiptoeing across the floor as quickly as he could, he circled around the throne to the tapestry just behind it. With shaking fingers, he tore the wall hanging down, letting it flutter to the ground. There, suspended from a wooden lattice, was the Dark One’s dagger, just as she’d said. From pommel to tip the dagger was a bit longer than his forearm. The black, fluted handle ended in a ruby roughly the size of a robin’s egg. The wavy blade was covered in ornate black scrollwork. Most importantly, the Dark One’s name was spelled out in wicked-looking letters. 

That name was vital to the plan. The Dark One would not come until she was summoned - until he said her name three times. Thankfully, Papa had taught Bae his letters years ago. Books were a luxury they couldn’t afford, so his reading abilities were sadly lacking, but he could sound it out.

Gingerly, he pulled the dagger from its mooring. The fluting of the handle had a scaled texture, like the snakes he used to catch and stick down the back of Morraine’s dress when they were little. Even more unnerving, it felt… warm. Far warmer than the air in the room. Almost as if it was alive. With a shudder of revulsion, he focused on the task at hand. Squinting in the low light, he made out the name: Belle. He sounded it out under his breath. The first four letters made sense, but what about that last “e?” Was it a long vowel sound? Short? Silent? Did it change how the first “e” was pronounced? He didn’t know enough about reading to be sure. He’d just have to figure it out.

“Bella?” he called, though he was pretty sure that was spelled differently. “Bell...y?” That didn’t make sense, either. What kind of evil wizard would be named Belly? “Uh… Beel?”

“Incredible.” The whisper was barely audible, but still nearly made him jump out of his skin. He whirled around, barely able to make out the Dark One in the gloom. Her pale silver eyes peeked out of her hood in a field of black. “Three attempts to pronounce my name, and you manage to mispronounce it differently each time.”

“I told you this morning I could barely read,” he mumbled petulantly. “If you’d just told me this morning how to say it…”

“Names have power, boy, and power isn’t something I give up lightly.” He held her hand out to him, palm up. “Now - the dagger, if you please.”

Here it was: the moment he’d been working toward. The one he’d been dreading. Handing the dagger over would leave her free to do whatever she wished. She said she wouldn’t hurt him or Papa, but her word was the only assurance she’d given. She was  _ evil _ \- how reliable could her word be?

Time. He needed time to think. 

“W-wait,” he stammered, taking a hasty step back. “Our deal. You said you’d take care of the ogres.”

The silence stretched between them as the Dark One stared unblinkingly at him. His heart pounded in his chest. She wasn’t listening to him. If she wouldn’t uphold this part of the deal, then what would stop her from lashing out at him and Papa once she was free? This was a mistake. He never should have come here. He should - should find the Duke and give the dagger back, or maybe just attack the Dark One with it. She was a monster, and didn’t heroes vanquish monsters?

His grip shifted on the twisted hilt of the dagger; her eyes flickered down to it for a split second. “Very well,” she said aloud. “I’ll fulfill my end of the deal. Just so long as you hold to your word.” With that, she was gone in a plume of purple smoke.

Bae released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. They’d never specified which would happen first - him relinquishing the dagger, or her taking care of the ogres. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong by insisting she do her part first. He wondered if she saw things the same way.

Either way, he’d bought himself some time to think things through. Consider all the angles. And while he did that, he could help Stealthy free his friend. Tucking the dagger in the waistband of his pants, he hurried out to the castle courtyard. Orderly rows of flowers and shrubs lined the outer walls of the space, no doubt all flowering in a variety of colors in daylight. The torches had long since gone out; the only light came from the full moon and stars in the sky above… and a fire-maned creature pacing the confines of its metal cage. It wasn’t the only caged creature. There were at least a dozen prisoners here, all kept captive in a variety of ways. They were the only source of movement.

Upon his first step over the threshold, Stealthy emerged from where he’d blended with the shadows. “About time,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you did to everyone, but they’re down for the count. Still, can’t be too careful.” He pointed toward a door at the far end of the courtyard. “Keep an eye out. If anybody comes near - a guard, a nobleman, anybody - you whistle once. You  _ can _ whistle, right?” Bae nodded. “Good. I’m busting my brother out of here.”

Bae did as directed, gnawing on his inner cheek nervously. The Dark One could be back any minute, and he still wasn’t sure how to handle her. Did he uphold his end of the deal? Doing so would release her into the world, where she could bring untold evils.

Then… there was the temptingly obvious choice: he could keep the dagger for himself. The Dark One could make life so much easier for him and Papa. She could move them somewhere where nobody had ever heard of Rumpelstiltskin, much less thought him a coward. She could furnish them with food, new clothes, a house - a palace! - and enough gold to let them live in comfort. Maybe she could even heal Papa’s ankle!

But… wouldn’t it be selfish, to use that power just for himself? Maybe there was someone better he could give it to. Someone wise, and kind, who could put the Dark One’s power to use in a way that would benefit everyone. Someone clever enough to make sure she never, ever got loose.

Or maybe… maybe he should kill her. That idea didn’t sit right with him, but… it would be the best way to keep the world safe from her. Wouldn’t it? He didn’t much like the idea of killing  _ anyone _ . Still, before last night he’d been days away from being sent to kill ogres. Surely killing the Dark One was no different.

But what if she couldn’t be killed - or could, but only under special circumstances? Maybe she had three golden hairs on her head that kept her immortal, or - or she would die only if she was tricked into performing a taboo act. Or… maybe the dagger was the key. It could control her, after all. Maybe it could kill her, too.

There were so many different paths he could take. Which was the right one? 

******

The smells that assaulted Belle nearly made her retch for the second time today. The smoke-filled air carried the scents of unwashed bodies, decaying flesh, and human waste from the nearby encampment of the Duke’s soldiers. Worse - they were downwind from the ogre encampment. The stiff breeze carried the rank smell of unwashed ogre… and under that, the mouth-watering savor of cooking meat. The soldiers… children… in the human encampments all huddled close together, shivering and whimpering in the ever-burning light of the blazing fields. They chewed miserably at their rations, clearly trying not to think too closely about what those horrifyingly appetizing smells could be. Or more accurately, who.

For the first time since her capture, Belle took a moment to look - really look - at the army she’d helped to assemble. The knight-commanders, she knew, were arrayed in the finest plate and furnished with armaments smithed by the duchy’s most skilled artisans. It seemed the Duke didn’t deem the infantry worthy of such expenditure; while a lucky few were given a complete set of quilted armor and a hastily-smithed sword or pike, most wore mismatched bits and pieces. Judging by the holes and bloodstains, many had salvaged armor from their own dead. For weaponry, most made do with farming tools: scythes, pitchforks, spades, and hoes. There wasn’t even a crossbow or recurve in sight. After all, why bother spending the money on ranged weaponry when you weren’t even going to teach your “soldiers” basic marksmanship? Never mind that fighting an ogre at close range was a death sentence.

Belle’s stomach churned from more than just the stench of death that surrounded her. This wasn’t a battlefield. It was a slaughterhouse, and she the shepherd lining the sheep up for their turn under the hammer.

The night breeze stirred the hem of her velvet cloak, and she belatedly realized that she was finally free to clothe herself. She didn’t have her freedom yet, but the Duke’s various bans and orders had lifted the moment the dagger had found a new owner. And oh, how lovely it would be to taste true liberty again, when she was her own mistress once more.

With a thought her royal blue cloak was gone, cast into one of the nearby fires. In its place was a deep maroon dragonhide armor coat over a man’s tunic and breeches. Black raven’s feather epaulets adorned the shoulders of the coat, and the sharp black armor plates on her arms and legs were merely decorative. The Dark One had no need for armor, but it was important to cut a striking figure when singlehandedly winning a decades-long war. Especially when one had an audience. The skintight leather breeches and towering heeled boots were impractical for a battlefield, but she had no intention of engaging the ogres face to face.

The children in the nearby camp had started to notice her.. Every last eye was upon her - the younger, newer recruits with a wide-eyed mixture of fear and hope, the older with dead-eyed resignation. They all knew who she was; she’d been present at every last conscription. These children were here because of her. Thousands of others were dead - buried in mass graves, or filling an ogre belly - because of her. Children had died - were dying - and it was all due to her carelessness.

Never again.

Her eyes skimmed over all of the younglings in their ill-fitted armor, settling on a girl with long, golden blonde hair and frightened brown eyes. She recognized the child. Belle remembered the face of every last child she sent to their doom, but this memory was fresh. This girl’s capture just yesterday was the catalyst that set the current events in motion.

“Go home, all of you,” she called, projecting her voice so even those at the far end of the encampment could hear her. A few of the youths flinched at the noise, glancing anxiously toward the ogre camp. “This war is over.”

“But… what about the Duke?” a timid boy with blond curls whispered. “If we desert, his men will come for our families!”

Belle sucked on her front teeth in irritation. The most powerful dark sorcerer in the realm was before them, in the flesh, and still they feared the wrath of a puffed-up nobleman who hardly deigned to notice their existence. Soon the Duke would understand, intimately, just how very powerless he was.

Belle would make sure of it.

“You let me worry about the Duke.” She turned her back on them to discourage any more arguments. The scuffling of feet told her that at least a few of them were smart enough to obey her. 

Striding out onto the deserted battlefield, Belle made no effort to muffle her steps. Neither did she do anything to call attention to herself. The ogres would hear her approach. Thinking her helpless, they would come to her, slavering for her blood. Soon, they would find that she was no easy meat.

As the first towering, armored forms approached her, tilting their ugly heads and snuffling the air cautiously, Belle called upon her magic. It sprung to hand eagerly, desperate to be wielded after years of languishing unused. The power flowed through her, nearly overwhelming her with its intensity. It froze her bones even as it seared her skin, and her blood sang in ecstasy as the magic threatened to burst free unbidden. The dark energy teeming through her didn’t just want to be used; it demanded it whether Belle willed or no, and only her strength of will kept it in check.

At any other time, Belle would conserve her strength. The golden-stringed bow at her abandoned castle never missed a shot; she could easily deal lethal blows through the monsters’ eyes, felling them all with ease. It certainly wouldn’t take the toll that this magic was about to exact from her. But, she reflected as her power unleashed, mutilating the ogres in a symphony of cracking bone, tearing flesh and snapping sinew, she had five years worth of bloodlust churning in her stomach.

Butchering the ogres was a decent start.

As she delicately plucked a gob of entrails from her hair with the tips of her blackened claws, a shuffling sound reached her ears. Her unnaturally large eyes picked out a shape creeping about in the fire-lit night. Smaller than the other ogres, it still dwarfed Belle by a foot or two. An ogre child, or perhaps an adolescent.

An image came to her mind, unbidden, of another ogre youngling centuries ago. With that thought came others: the naivety of a young girl, the casual cruelty of a dashing lord, and the resulting war that ended in the utter obliteration of an unnamed kingdom.

With a toss of her head she banished the thought. A flick of her wrist dispatched the ogre child as quickly and messily as its kin. Once it collapsed into a bloody heap, she turned, and pulled up short. The blonde-haired girl stood mere feet away, adoration in her warm brown eyes.

“You did it. You really did it. You killed them,” the child breathed. Before Belle could react, the youth’s arms were thrown around her waist, hugging her close. “Thank you! Oh, thank you,  _ thank you! _ ”

Shaking the girl off of her, Belle quelled the urge to cringe. The Dark One did  _ not _ cower from children too stupid to know not to play with fire. “Don’t you dare thank me,” she whispered. “Not for this.”

A frown marred the child’s smooth brow. She didn’t seem to notice the smear of ogre blood on her cheek from Belle’s coat. “But you killed the ogres. You’re ending the war, and letting us go home.” Those large eyes, so sincere, pierced through Belle in a way no weapon could. “You’re a  _ hero. _ ”

Belle snorted. Heroism had nothing to do with it. Heroes had courage, honor, virtue. Anyone with her power could do exactly what she’d done, for no other reason than boredom. “No,” she whispered, “I’m not.”

Before the child could argue further, Belle vanished in a puff of smoke. There were dozens of ogre camps to destroy, and she could afford no troubling distractions.

******

When Rumpelstiltskin awoke for the second time that day, his hut was completely dark. Had he slept the day away? And what was he doing back in Bae’s bed? He tried to remember, but his brain was fuzzy and sluggish, like it had been stuffed with freshly-shorn wool.

He shivered; the cool, moist air of early spring penetrated right through his threadbare clothes. The hearth was dark, something he never allowed to happen until the weather warmed enough not to need it.

“Bae, why did you let the fire go out?” he grumbled groggily, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. Not that it was Bae’s fault. With his leg, Rumpelstiltskin was useless at performing his duties as a man and a father, but at least he could tend the hearth and home. He wasn’t frustrated with his son; he simply dreaded having to beg a neighbor to loan him their flint.

With a start, he realized that Bae never answered him. Indeed, the hut was as still and quiet as the grave. “Bae?” he whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. “Son, if you’re there, say something.”

No response. Rumpelstiltskin sat up, struggling through the mire of his sluggish thoughts. He’d… he’d woken up this morning with a bump on his head. Bae had been full of nervous, frenetic energy, which Rumpelstiltskin had assumed could be attributed to the rapid approach of his conscription. He’d gone foraging, and insisted on making lunch. The last thing he could remember was Bae leading him to the bed and apologizing for… something.

That gave him pause. Had… had Bae  _ drugged _ him? He’d noticed a strange taste in the soup, but he’d written it off as just yet another time when Bae had managed to ruin a perfectly good pot of food. The boy had no business being anywhere near a kitchen. 

Where was he? Had Hordor come back and taken him early? Had he run off on his own to try to escape without his lame father slowing him down? Or worse - had he run off to join the war effort early, without anyone to stop him? 

Hauling himself out of bed, he crawled on the dirt floor on his hands and knees, fumbling around blindly in search of his walking stick. He’d cursed his ruined ankle countless times since that cold spring night when he’d taken the hammer to himself in the ultimate act of cowardice. But never had he cursed it so ripely as he did tonight. Bae could be anywhere. His son could be on the front lines of the Ogres War, or dying in a ditch somewhere, and his fucking leg was holding him back!

After what seemed like an age, his fingers closed around the familiar worn wood of his walking stick. Planting it and his good foot underneath him, he managed to shove himself to his feet, only painfully jarring his ankle once. He needed to get out there. He needed to find Bae. He needed - 

Before he could hobble to the door, the cloth was pulled aside, and a woman stepped into the darkened hut. The lantern she carried cast shadows over her frowning face, illuminating her waist-length brunette braid and brown woolen dress. Rumpelstiltskin had spun, dyed and woven that cloth for her himself when she’d first come to the town six years ago, after she’d complimented him on the quality of his craft. 

“Vivienne,” he said.

“And just what do you think you’re doing up on that ankle, Rumpelstiltskin?” the village healer demanded brusquely. “After how you sprained it yesterday, you should still be abed. It’s no wonder your son came to me for help, if you’re too much of a stubborn woolhead to heed sense.” Without invitation, she pushed her way through the hut. Soon she was busying herself stacking wood in the hearth for a fire.

Normally, Vivienne’s scolding would have him nodding and agreeing to anything she said, eager to have her penetrating glare move on to the next soul unfortunate enough to need healing. This time, his mind honed in on one thing. “Bae? You’ve seen Bae?” He limped to Vivienne’s side as quickly as his leg would allow, nearly tripping over his stick in the process. “Where? When? Is he alright?”

The young woman glanced up at him briefly, never really taking her attention from her task. “He stopped by this morning,” she said, lighting a twig in her lantern and using it to ignite the tinder. She blew on it gently, encouraging the flame to spread to the kindling. “He said you hurt your ankle… trying to spirit Bae out of here.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s face heated in shame. Partly because she knew that he’d run - again. Partly because he couldn’t even do that right. “I…”

She waved her hand dismissively with an irritated glance. “You need explain nothing to me, Rumpelstiltskin. Had I the means, I would have done the same for every last child in the duchy.” One hand fidgeted with her braid as she muttered to herself. He only caught brief snatches of her words. “Sending children off to war… ought to box their ears…”

Sensing that Vivienne was working herself up into a fine tirade, Rumpelstiltskin interrupted. “You - you were telling me about Bae,” he mumbled, hunching his shoulders under her offended scowl.

“Bae. Yes. He came to me this morning, looking for medicine to keep you off your ankle. He said you’d done quite a number on yourself, and were too stubborn to take a rest day.” Standing up from the now merrily crackling fire, she dusted her hands on her skirt with a frown. “I must say, you look none the worse for wear.” He opened his mouth to explain, but she ploughed on. “He bought every bit of sleepweed I had; it’ll take me weeks to harvest and dry more.”

That didn’t make sense. They hardly had two coppers to rub together. What had he traded for so much of the medicine?

He asked as much, and Vivienne rummaged through a pocket, pulling out a large silver coin. “I don’t know where he got it, and I don’t particularly care,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen its like, but it’s solid silver.”

She handed the coin to him without hesitation. Of course she did; it wasn’t like he could get away with stealing it, even if he wanted to. She was stronger than him, faster than him, more well-liked than him; even if he somehow managed to get it away from her, the rest of the village would be only too happy to do whatever it took to get it back.

He turned the coin over in his fingers. One side featured an elaborate coat of arms. Rumpelstiltskin knew nothing of such things, and couldn’t say he was all that curious about the subject. There was some writing along the outer edge, but it was so worn that it was illegible. The other side featured the bust of a beautiful young woman in profile. Her curls were swept back from her delicate features, which were obscured from years of handling.

“I’ve… I’ve never seen this coin before. He didn’t get it from me.” He handed the coin back. He took a deep, steadying breath. “You said you sold him all of the sleepweed you had. How much…?”

“Far more than he needed,” Vivienne admitted. “Enough to put dozens of people to sleep. Possibly even over a hundred, if it was mixed with strong wine.”

The blood froze in his veins. Surely Bae hadn’t put all of that into the soup Rumpelstiltskin had eaten that morning. Which meant he had much more. What on earth was his son up to? “Wh-why would you ever give him that?” he demanded, forgetting momentarily about the healer’s infamous temper.

So, it seemed, had she. Her eyes slid guiltily to the floor. “I shouldn’t have, I know,” she agreed. “But I thought… with his birthday in two days… maybe he had something planned. Some way to put an end to the war, or even just bring a few children home.”

“And you thought it was worth putting  _ my son _ at risk?” he raged. “Bae is fourteen! Not even - he turns fourteen in less than two days! And you think he’s got - what - some master plan to end a war that’s been going on since before he was born? How dare you!”

Vivienne drew herself up to her full height. “You think I like any of this? I  _ hate _ it! I  _ hate  _ that children are sent off to fight a war that not even your duchy’s soldiers could win.” She jabbed at his chest with one long finger, the nail poking painfully into his sternum. “But if the Duke deems him old enough to die for his people, then he’s old enough to choose his own fate. He—“

“His fate?” he snarled, anger and fear warring within him in equal measure. “His  _ fate? _ His  _ fate _ is to be here with me. His  _ fate _ is to grow up, find a nice girl, get married, and raise a family. Not - not throw his life away on some fool’s errand. You had no right!”

“ _ Children are dying! _ ” Vivienne roared. “I’ve tried for years - years! - to get people to join up and stand up to the Duke, but no one listens! If Bae…” She trailed off, suddenly, whirling around to stare at the cloth door covering. “Something’s changed,” she whispered.

“What?” 

“Ever since I came here, I’ve had this… feeling. Like there was a storm on the horizon, drawing ever closer.” She turned her eyes back on Rumpelstiltskin. “A storm in the east.”

“The ogres,” he realized.

“The ogres,” she agreed. “For the past year, as the fires grew ever closer, it felt like the storm was nearly upon us. But now it’s… gone.” Without another word she hurried out of the hut, Rumpelstiltskin at her heels.

The full moon bathed the night in its silvery glow. There were no other souls out in the cool night; all the other townsfolk were nestled in their beds, or headed in that direction. The angry, blood red fires on the eastern horizon blazed as fiercely as ever, showing no sign of letting up.

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart sank in his chest, and it wasn’t until that moment that he realized that he’d actually believed the healer’s words. “You see? Nothing’s changed! And you just threw away my son’s--”

“Shh!” Vivienne’s eyes were glued to the horizon, scanning constantly. Suddenly she gasped and pointed. “There! There!”

His eyes followed where her finger was pointing. Whatever she’d seen, it eluded him. “I don’t…” He trailed off. He saw it, too: one by one, the fires in the distance were winking out. “That…” He swallowed. “That couldn’t be Bae.”

Vivienne stared at him for a long moment. “Maybe it wasn’t.” 

But they both knew, deep down, that it was.

The pair stood for an hour, watching as the fires were slowly extinguished. When the last blaze went out, and the night sky was truly dark for the first time in years, Vivienne left Rumpelstiltskin to his own devices, fiddling with the end of her braid. 

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart pounded in his chest. He should be happy. After so many years, the Ogres War was finally over. No more looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day when the town was overrun by monsters. No more counting the days until Bae’s eighteenth, seventeenth, sixteenth, fifteenth, and finally  _ fourteenth _ birthday. He could leave his house without a constant, glowing reminder of the horrors in the distance - the horrors he’d fled from nearly a decade and a half before. He should be dancing for joy - as much as his ankle would allow, at least.

But instead he was terrified. Someone - or some _ thing _ \- had managed to do what all of the Duke’s soldiers had failed to do. And somehow, he just  _ knew _ that Bae was involved. He was no stranger to fear. Some days, it seemed like he’d spent his entire life just looking for the next corner to cower in. But all of that paled in comparison to to icy hand of terror that had his heart in his grip.

“Oh, Bae,” the frightened spinner whispered. “What have you gotten yourself into, boy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I forgot how GOOD it feels to write fantasy. Everything flows so much easier. I could write this all day, every day. 
> 
> I hope these chapters aren't too short; I've noticed that when I try for longer chapters, I start getting impatient and my writing suffers for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I'm on Tumblr, if you ever want to shoot me an Ask on TMI Tuesdays. Or any day, really. I'm too lazy to close my Ask box. You can find me at deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com. Apart from posting my fics, I don't post anything special - reblogs of whatever strikes my fancy, and the occasional awful joke.

Bae paced the castle courtyard restlessly, Papa’s cloak dragging behind him along the cobbled pathways. Each step sent jolts of pain through his abused feet. Usually sunset marked the end of any outdoor chores; the rest of the night would be spent off his feet, his toes free of the too-small confines of his outgrown boots. Bae had been on his feet since sunrise, and night had fallen hours ago. His feet protested the punishment.

But he was too restless to stop. Judging by the moon’s travel across the night sky, the Dark One had left him nearly two hours ago, and had yet to return. He anxiously checked the moon’s position every ten seconds, hardly able to bear the wait. What was keeping her? He didn’t know how long Vivienne’s sleepweed would last. The nobles slumped on the ground in their vast array of jewels and silks lay motionless on the ground all around; none stirred so much as a muscle. But any moment now, that could change.

At least he wasn’t alone in his agitation. For the past hour, Stealthy had been engaged in an argument with his brother, Dreamy. It had taken him only moments to pick the lock on Dreamy’s cage; they should have been long gone by now. But Dreamy refused to leave until the other captives were freed. Particularly the woman in the cage next to his. High cheekbones, large eyes, and slender frame gave her an ethereal, elfin appearance. Her strange, frilly pink dress with the wide skirt was in tatters, her curly brown hair pulled into a matted bun atop her head. Picking the lock on her cage had been child’s play for Stealthy. 

The fetters binding her wrists and ankles were a different story. The manacles had no keyhole. They were each of one piece, containing neither hinge nor hasp. The only way to get them off would be to shatter the metal. And unfortunately, Stealthy hadn’t brought any tools for the job.

“I can’t leave her, Stealthy!” the bald dwarf insisted. 

“Why?” the dark-clad dwarf demanded.

“I… I don’t know.” His frown wasn’t angry, so much as confused. The dwarf’s affable face didn’t seem capable of displaying any sort of negative emotion. As his eyes strayed back to the brunette woman, the lines on his brow lifted, and a broad, joyous smile spread across his face. “I just need to  _ be _ with her.”

The woman returned his smile with a sad one of her own. “It’s okay, Dreamy,” she said. “You’re free! You can go back to your brothers in the mines. The next time someone comes to pick up the year’s supply of fairy dust, you can tell them where I am. Blue will know what to do.”

“No!” Dreamy crossed the distance to her cage. He stepped inside and took her thin, delicate hands in his meaty paws. “I can’t leave you, Nova! I’m gonna get you out of there if it’s the last thing I do!”

She shook her head resignedly. “There’s nothing you can do,” she said. “These fetters were crafted by the Dark One’s magic. Only an equal power can break them.”

Bae perked up at that. “The Dark One?” he asked. 

Both dwarf and woman whirled to face him, as if they’d forgotten he was there. “She’s an evil sorceress who serves the Duke,” Nova explained. “She does all of his bidding without question. She quells any rebellion against the Duke, and she helps take children from their homes to fight in the war.”

“I know who she is,” he said dryly. “Everyone in the duchy has had someone taken away to fight in the war. I just didn’t know she made your chains.”

“Oh. I guess… I guess that’s true,” she admitted with a wince.

Bae hesitated. He had the means to help Stealthy, Dreamy and Nova. As soon as the Dark One returned, he could have her break the woman’s bonds so they could all leave this awful place behind. But telling others about her dagger might not be the best idea. Keeping things vague might be best.

“I might be able to get her to help us,” he admitted. “I made a deal with the Dark One: her freedom, in exchange for ending the Ogres War. Maybe I can get her to free you, too.”

Nova paled, her eyes growing huge in her slim face. “You mustn’t!” she cried. “Blue’s told me about her. The Dark One only makes deals when she stands to gain more than anyone else. She twists words to suit her whim, and takes lives without mercy or remorse. You can’t loose her evil upon the world!”

“A bit overdramatic, don’t you think?” a woman’s accented voice drawled.

As one, every waking being in the courtyard - Bae, dwarves, and captive creatures - turned to face the Dark One. Instead of the velvet cloak she’d been wearing, she was now dressed in leather and armor-plated dragonhide. It was impossible to determine the color of her coat; the full moon provided plenty of illumination, but the scaled material was covered in gore. Blood clumped her bronze curls together, ran down her face in rivulets, and dripped from the hem of her coat. If she’d been unnerving before, now she was downright terrifying.

Now that she had everyone’s attention, her voice lowered back to a whisper. “It is done. My side of our arrangement has been fulfilled. Now it’s your turn.” Her eyes darted to the room’s other occupants, peering at each one measuringly. She didn’t reach her hand out for the dagger.

Nova gripped the bars of her cage urgently. “No, please! You can’t free her! She--”

Whatever she was about to say was cut off as a plume of smoke burst from her mouth and into the Dark One’s hand. The smoke dissipated, revealing something pink and wet-looking wriggling in the grayish palm. Bae swallowed hard against the nausea in his belly as he realized what it was. It was… it was a  _ tongue. _ Nova’s tongue.

Dreamy gripped the frightened woman’s shoulders as she frantically tried to speak. “Nova? Nova!” He rounded on the Dark One, his brows drawn down beseechingly. “What did you do to her? Please, whatever it is, undo it!”

“Be quiet, before I do the same to you,” the mage hissed. “The fairy will be fine. Once I have what I came for, her tongue will be restored and I’ll leave you all in peace.” Her gaze slid to Bae. He shivered under the cold stare. “You. Boy. Come with me. We have things to discuss.”

The two dwarves stood in cowed silence as Bae trudged reluctantly behind the Dark One. She led him to a small, private alcove, where the torchlight didn’t reach. Bae had never been claustrophobic, but being in close quarters with such an evil sorceress made the stone walls seem to press in on him. He was so close that he could smell the metallic tang of blood from her clothes. It did nothing to settle his stomach.

Here, away from prying eyes, the Dark One had no qualms about holding her hand out for the dagger. At least it wasn’t the hand that still held the fairy’s tongue, Bae noticed with a sort of numb horror.

“The dagger, boy.  _ Now. _ ”

Bae’s right hand strayed to his back, where the dagger was still tucked in his belt. The unnatural warmth of the handle in his cold, trembling fingers was hardly reassuring. “Wh-whose blood is that?” he asked.

Her overly large, silver eyes rolled, blackened teeth gnashing in frustration. “Gods save me from children and their interminable questions,” she snarled. “Never mind that. I have upheld my end of the deal. Do the same, and you need never see me again.”

Bae wasn’t sure what “interminable” meant, but it probably wasn’t good. What he did know was that the Dark One hadn’t made a move for the dagger. Which probably meant that she couldn’t. Maybe he could control her, and get more information before he came to a decision.

Pulling the dagger from his belt and holding it before him like a talisman, Bae met the Dark One’s eyes squarely. He did his best to ignore the full-body tremors that shook him. “A-answer my questions, Dark One.” His voice cracked embarrassingly, betraying the terror he tried desperately to hide.

He’d seen that murderous look on her face only once before: when he’d interrupted while she was speaking. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this. “It’s the blood you demanded of me, boy. Ogre blood.” 

Bae heaved a sigh of relief. Good. That was… good. “You didn’t hurt anyone?” he asked.

The look she gave him clearly said she thought he was an idiot. “I just told you, boy. I killed ogres. Hundreds of them, at your behest.”

“No, I mean - I mean  _ people. _ You didn’t kill  _ people, _ right?”

One finely manicured eyebrow rose. “Define ‘people.’ Humans, obviously. Do your little dwarf and fairy friends count?”

Bae’s brow furrowed. “Of… of course.”

“And what of the werewolf?” she pressed. “Is she a person, or no? Perhaps she loses her personhood on the full moon, yes? What about the cursed princeling? Did he cease to be a person when he was turned into a monster? Where, exactly, do you draw the line?” She leaned in close, her nose mere inches from his own. “Don’t be so quick to barbarize your enemies, boy. Ogres have emotions. They dream, they love, and they mourn their dead, all in their own way. You and I ended many lives this night.” She pulled back, her lip curled in disgust. “But to answer the question you were  _ trying _ to ask, I only killed ogres.”

Her answer was as troubling as it was reassuring. “If I let you go--”

“ _ If? _ ” 

“If I let you go,” he repeated louder, doing his best to ignore her glower, “are you going to hurt people?”

“Indubitably.” He blinked, and she rolled her eyes. “It means ‘yes, without a doubt.’”

“W-will…” He swallowed. “Will they deserve it?”

The Dark One sighed impatiently. “According to whom? You? Are you a paragon of wisdom who can unerringly tell who deserves to be hurt?” She slashed a hand horizontally through the air. “Enough quibbling. Are you going to give me the dagger, or not?”

Bae stared back at the Dark One. When she’d been dressed in that oversized cloak, it was possible - if not easy - to convince himself that she was just an ordinary woman. If a strange-looking one. But now, seeing her in her armor, drenched in the blood of monsters, he was painfully aware that he was dealing with someone who could kill him with a thought. Who had no qualms about killing, and was bound not to kill him and Papa by nothing more than her word. 

The decision was clear.

“I can’t,” he said. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You can’t?” she asked. “Or you won’t?”

Bae shrugged helplessly. “Does it matter?”

"You’re reneging on your end of the deal, then?”

“Does reneging mean going back on a deal?” he asked. She nodded. “Then… yeah. I guess I am.”

“I see.” Her face took on an inscrutable look. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem angry - not like she was when he’d ordered her to answer his questions. She looked… calculating. 

He hoped he hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

******

Belle shouldn’t have been surprised by the boy’s refusal to honor their bargain. She was, but she shouldn’t have been. 

Things would have gone so much smoother if the idiot knight captain hadn’t knocked out the timid spinner with the hopeless eyes. Despite his crippled leg and trampled spirit, that man had the potential to be the most dangerous sort: a man with only one thing left to lose, who would do rash, desperate things to keep it safe. He would have handed the dagger over without question if it meant saving the life of the infuriatingly inquisitive boy before her.

This boy, though. He was clever, if uneducated and naive. He still clung to the eternal optimism his youth afforded him, as well as a frustrating black-and-white moral code that left no room for the complexities of life. Belle had been the same, once. But that was long ago.

She wasn’t disappointed at this turn of events. To be disappointed, one had to be hopeful. All she had left was grim determination. She  _ would _ be free, and soon. This boy lacked the education that Duke Amrys had, as well as the team of councillors advising him on how to keep his pet Dark One on a tight leash. She wasn’t free yet, but she was freer than she’d been in five years. Compared to her previous circumstances, manipulating events to secure her liberation would be child’s play.

And then the boy would learn to regret breaking a deal with the Dark One.

She stared at the child, pinning him under the full intensity of her gaze. His worried look tugged her lips up in a pleased smile. There was power in having a voice. There was more in commanding fear without saying a word. Seeing how he treated her when he simultaneously feared her and had complete power over her would give her the true measure of his character.

“I… I want you to free Nova. And give her tongue back,” he added hastily.

Technically, he hadn’t given her an order; he’d just expressed a desire. She could do nothing, and the dagger wouldn’t compel her. But letting him believe that she had to follow his whims could work in her favor later. With a flick of her wrist and a plume of smoke, she returned the tongue to the fairy’s head, and dissolved her bonds. “Done,” she whispered.

“Wait here,” the boy said, and that was a command. She remained in place while he left their little alcove to check in with his friends. With less than half a thought she vanished the blood from her clothes, hair, and skin. She’d left it there thinking to terrify the boy into handing over the dagger quickly. But apparently she’d made a deal with a  _ hero _ who was more concerned with stopping her than minding his own safety. Now that that plan had failed, she wanted to get the sticky, rapidly congealing substance off of herself.

Soon the boy came back, a troubled frown on his face. His eyes flickered up and down her form, but he didn’t comment on her newfound cleanliness. “If…” he began, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and started over. “If I have you free all of the… caged… people?” He paused, as though uncertain of the word he’d used. “Will they hurt anyone?”

“I’m no seer,” she replied. “I can’t predict the future.”

“Try.”

She sighed, but complied, ticking each one off on a finger. “The mermaid is no harm to anyone. Years in tight confines have weakened her too much to swim properly. She will die if you return her to her home.” She considered the other captives. “Gorgons and sirens guard their territory ruthlessly, but will keep to their own devices if left alone. Unicorns attack only to defend themselves and their kin. The wolf girl has no control over her actions in this form, but I can’t speak to her character on the other twenty-seven days of the month. Maybe she’s a simple girl who lives with her grandmother, as she claims. Or maybe she’s a cold-blooded killer.” That only left one other creature. “The yaoguai is different from any of his kind. His dual natures war with each other. His actions are impossible to predict.”

“Oh.” The boy shifted restlessly from foot to foot with a wince. No, not restlessly, Belle realized - his feet hurt. Reaching out with her magical senses - the ones that allowed her to read desires so accurately - she immediately saw the issue. His boots were too small. A flick of her finger fixed the problem, resizing them with room for growth. Startled, the boy looked down, flexing his toes. “Did you make my boots bigger?” 

She waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll be here all night if you’re distracted by your feet,” she muttered, picking a bit of lint off of her sleeve. “If we’re here when the Duke awakens, things will get… violent.” 

“Okay. Okay.” He sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few moments. He blew it out and upwards in a rush, stirring his fluffy black fringe slightly. “Okay. Um… I want you to free them. It’s not right to keep them caged.” Belle raised an eyebrow at the irony of her jailer objecting to leaving other beings imprisoned. “I want you to send each one someplace safe. Send them home if that’s safe for them. If it’s not, send them somewhere they won’t hurt anyone, and won’t get hurt.”

The boy was compassionate, she had to give him that. Compassionate, but absolutely terrible at phrasing his demands. Vague requests like his could be deliberately misinterpreted in a dozen ways, and the dagger would do nothing to enforce its wielder’s actual intent. But she played along, sending each creature to a place she deemed suitable. 

“Done,” she whispered, willing her knees not to tremble.

The effort tired her more than it should have. Apart from the small meal she’d had in the spinner’s hovel last night, she’d had nothing to eat in three days - nothing she’d managed to keep down, at any rate. As the Dark One, she couldn’t starve to death. But magic always demanded its price. Without a deal in place, the magic of the dagger exacted its toll on its host. She’d already expended a massive amount of energy slaughtering the hordes of ogres on the battlefields. Had she known she would be bound to the whims of a child, she would have conserved her strength.

“Are we finished here?” she asked impatiently. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be quit of this place.”

“Y-yeah,” he agreed. “Take me…” He hesitated. A slow smile spread across his face, and he bounced eagerly on his toes. “Take me to the front!” he cried.

Gnashing her teeth in irritation, Belle obeyed; the dagger demanded it. The only illumination came from the moon, and the campfires set up in the human encampments. In the time she’d been gone, the Duke’s soldiers - those who hadn’t fled - had started putting out the grass fires. A girl - the same girl who had hugged Belle hours earlier - looked up from where she was stomping out some dying embers.

“Baelfire?” she called.

“Morraine!” The boy - Baelfire, apparently - ran toward the girl. With a joyous whoop he threw his arms around her, squeezing with all his strength. “Thank the gods you’re okay!”

“I didn’t have to fight,” she explained, her voice muffled in Baelfire’s shoulder. “I just got here earlier today. If the Dark One had gotten here any later…” She pulled away, her gaze darting uncertainly between Belle and the boy. “What are you doing with her, anyway? Your birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I… I made a deal with her,” he said, and oh, that rankled. Their deal was null and void, and with every passing moment, his debt to her grew. “The Ogres War is over, Morraine! Now you can go home!”

Morraine nodded. “We can all go home,” she agreed. “But.. I was talking with some of the others. Most of them don’t know how to get home from here. And with the roads beset by bandits… lots of us might not make it back safely.”

The boy’s brow lowered in thought. Belle suppressed an annoyed sigh, knowing exactly what to expect. By the time he came to the obvious conclusion, she already had her magic in her grasp, waiting for the order. “Dark One. Can you… can you return all of the soldiers to their homes?”

At least he phrased it as a question. Perhaps the honey-haired girl wouldn’t realize that Belle was enslaved, or that the Dark One had a weakness. The fewer people who knew about it, the better. As her magic wrapped around her like a cloak, content to do her bidding after reveling in so much bloodshed, her darker impulses presented her with an idea. The boy had specifically said  _ all _ of the soldiers. Not all of the  _ living _ soldiers. For a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the idea of sending the dead corpses home to their families. And not just whole corpses, either - bits of leather clothing the ogres had made, and charred bones cracked open for their marrow would make for particularly disturbing arrivals on a family’s doorstep.

A sadistic smirk spread across her face. She reached out with her senses, and...

She shook herself, and a shudder of revulsion raised gooseflesh on her scale-roughened skin. What was she  _ doing? _ She hadn’t taken on the curse to become this. As the Dark One, she knew intimately that evil deeds could be justified, even necessary, for the right causes. But cruelty for cruelty’s sake? That wasn’t who she was.

Or was it?

With a cold feeling in her stomach, she sent all of the living children home, including Morraine. Her preoccupation with what she’d almost done made the exhaustion weighing down her limbs seem trivial.

******

Rumpelstiltskin stood exactly where Vivienne had left him over an hour before. The night sky was the darkest it had been in years without the harsh, ever-present glow of the battle-fires. He shivered. Without the extra layer of his ragged cloak, the chill night air penetrated right through his threadbare clothes.

He should go back to his hut, he knew. If Bae came home, he would be there. But there was a pulling sensation in his chest urging him to go east, toward the extinguished fires of the front. Until about ten minutes ago, it had been tugging him in the opposite direction.

Not that it mattered. With his ankle throbbing the way it was, he’d barely make it out of town before it refused to carry him any further.

A sudden movement from the corner of his eye made him turn toward the village green. The small field had been completely empty only moments ago. Now there was a dark cloud, even blacker than the general gloom of the night, at the dead center. Rumpelstiltskin’s heart pounded in his chest. What new evil was this? Had the Dark One come to punish him for trying to spirit his boy away? Or had the ogres learned the ways of magic? Heart in his throat, he peered through the darkness, ready to run - limp, hobble, crawl, whatever - at the first sign of danger.

Soon the cloud dissipated. In its place was a group of figures huddling together - either from the chill, or from fear. They were far too small to be ogres. Too small even to be adults, even. They were… They were children. The village children! They were home! Before he realized it, he was already halfway to the green, his feet and walking stick carrying him without thought. Even the pain in his leg was distant, hardly noticed.

The children had noticed him by now, and murmured frightenedly amongst themselves.

“Someone’s coming!”

“Who is that?”

“He’s limping. I think… I think it’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

“The coward?”

“Shh! He’ll hear you!”

A hush fell over the group as he came to stand before them. He balanced on his good foot and his walking stick, lifting his foot slightly to take the weight off of it. “You’re home,” he said, voice thick with unshed tears. “Is it true, then? Is - is the war over?” The children all started speaking at once.

“The Dark One came--”

“--magic was  _ terrifying _ \--”

“--all over in seconds--”

“--there was this black smoke--”

“--wound up here!”

Rumpelstiltskin held his hands up for silence. Surprisingly, he got it; he recognized several of these children as ones who would routinely throw balls of mud - or worse - at him if they saw him on the street. “You should all go home,” he said. “Your families will be happy to see you. But - please - have any of you seen Bae?”

“I have!” a voice piped up from the back. The children parted to make way, most hurrying to their houses. Moraine stepped forward, her slim form practically swimming in the oversized quilted armor she wore. “He was with the Dark One. He said he made a deal with her to get rid of the ogres.” His heart stopped in his chest. Oblivious to his terror, Morraine continued. “It was like a miracle. She - she killed them all like it was nothing. And then Bae asked her to bring us home, and…” She trailed off, glancing uncertainly around herself. “Are Mama and Papa okay? I know she used her magic on them. I didn’t get a chance to ask if she hurt them.”

Jaw working soundlessly, Rumpelstiltskin tried to gather his thoughts. The Dark One was a woman? And Bae made a  _ deal _ with her? What did that have to do with the sleepweed he’d bought from Vivienne? And why hadn’t he returned with the other children?

Morraine was looking at him expectantly, and he belatedly realized that he’d never answered her. “They’re fine,” he managed to get out, his thoughts feeling vague and distant. “Run along home, Morraine. I’m sure they’re waiting.” 

As the girl ran off into the night, he realized that one child hadn’t gone yet. Not a child any longer, he amended; the girl, Anca, had been conscripted three years ago, on her seventeenth birthday. She would be twenty now. Her normally straight black hair was a matted tangle, and her eyes stared off dully into the distance.

He pushed thoughts of Bae to the side for the moment. Just as he hoped any other parent would do if they saw Bae lost and hurting. “Anca,” he said gently, reaching his free hand out slowly to grip her shoulder. She turned her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes seemed to look at him and past him simultaneously. “You should go home, too. Bryce and Eleanor will be happy to have you home.” When she made no move to do so, he tugged gently on the grimy sleeve of her armor. “Come on. I’ll walk with you. Or, limp with you,” he joked weakly, hoping to provoke a reaction. He didn’t.

Anca fell into step beside him, her face hidden by the matted curtain of her hair. Not looking at him seemed to loosen her tongue. “I was put in the same battalion as Fergus,” she mumbled. Rumpelstiltskin cast his memory back, vaguely recalling her older brother. A strapping lad who had been proud to go off to war at the age of nineteen, eager to prove himself to his pregnant wife. The fact that he hadn’t been among the children in the green old Rumpelstiltskin what he needed to know. “He… he always took care of me. Made sure I got my share of rations when food was scarce, taught me how to sharpen my blade, kept any of the other recruits from getting handsy with me.”

“Sounds like he loved you very much,” he said. The sentiment fell pathetically short, but what else was there to say?

Before he could take another step, Anca’s hand snatched at his sleeve, pulling him to a halt. “I - I need to tell you this,” she said urgently. “I know I have no right to ask. Fergus and I were… horrible to you when we were younger. Our parents always said you were a coward, and you deserved it.” None of this was any news to him. Most of the older children in the village had been at an age where they hung onto their parents’ every word when he’d returned from the war in disgrace. Fergus, in particular, liked to hide rocks in the middle of the mudballs he threw at the spinner. “B-but I need to say this. You’re the only one who will understand.”

He nodded solemnly. “Alright,” he murmured.

“There was an ambush,” she began, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “A week or two ago. The ogres killed all of our messenger birds, so we were caught flat-footed. Fergus… he… The ogres got him. One had his arms, and the other had his legs, and they were roaring at each other, and they wouldn’t stop  _ pulling _ …” She’d started trembling uncontrollably now, lost in the memory. “He was screaming, begging me to make it stop. And I… I…”

With his free arm he tugged her into an awkward hug. She’d had a growth spurt in the past three years, and now stood a few inches taller than him, but that didn’t stop her from burying her face in his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“I ran!” Those words unlocked something in her, and she started bawling into his shirt, soaking his shoulder with her tears. “Fergus was dying in pain, and I ran! I could’ve - could’ve… but I didn’t!” She said more, but he couldn’t understand it through her sobs. 

He consoled her as best he could, rubbing her shoulders and murmuring reassuring lies. It  _ wouldn’t _ be okay, and her parents  _ wouldn’t _ understand. If word got out that she’d let her brother die, even though there was nothing she could have done, she’d be branded a coward - as reviled as Rumpelstiltskin was. 

Eventually she pulled back, and he hid a sigh of relief as her added weight was taken off of his leg. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wiping the tears from her face. “Growing up, I always thought being brave was easy. Everyone in the village made it sound so when they talked about you.” Her lower lip wobbled, and she burst into tears again. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

“I know.” With a gentle nudge, he got her walking toward her parents’ house again. “Listen. As far as I’m concerned, we never had this conversation. You need never fear anyone will learn what happened from me.” He glanced over at her. Anca’s face was downcast, her features obscured by her hair. “I realize it’s small consolation coming from the town coward, but… there was nothing you could have done. One person, against two ogres when the bloodlust hits them… they’re unstoppable.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I could have died with him,” she said in a small voice.

“Aye, I suppose there’s that,” he admitted. “But then Bryce and Eleanor would be mourning two children instead of one. Take it from a father, Anca. I’d rather have a child come home in disgrace than in a casket.”

She looked up at him, then, and gave him the ghost of a smile. It barely curled her lips, and didn’t reach her eyes, but it was something. “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”

******

“Done,” Belle said needlessly. Baelfire had seen each soldier disappear in a puff of smoke.

The boy was looking all around him. Belle tries to see the battlefield through his eyes. The plains were utterly deserted aside from the two of them. Bodies were piled high all around: freshly slaughtered ogres littering the field, and bodies of children awaiting burial. Any trees had long since been hewn for firewood, and the grasses were mostly burnt to ash and char.

“There are so many dead.” He whirled to face Belle, his brown eyes large and fraught in his frightened face. “You can undo it, can’t you? Bring them back. Let them go back to their families.”

She shook her head, swallowing against the lump in her throat. It was hunger - that was all. “Magic can’t bring back the dead, boy,” she whispered. “If it could, the Duke wouldn’t have wasted my efforts conscripting children.”

“You’re lying!”

She didn’t rise to the bait. The boy didn’t mean it; he was just denying the truth. “I don’t lie. I may mislead, omit, or obfuscate, but I don’t lie.” She sighed. “Let me be clear. Bringing back the dead, and making someone fall in love. Magic cannot do these things.  _ I _ cannot do these things.”

Baelfire’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not  _ fair _ ,” he whined. “Ending the war was supposed to make everything better. But… this…” He gestured around himself, but his eyes stayed locked on his boots. “People are still dead. The land is still ruined. What was this all even for?”

She didn’t have an answer. A century ago, she might have. But watching humanity make the same mistakes over and over had soured her to the idea that things would get better. “You have your life,” she said simply. “Your papa has his. That’s more than you had yesterday.”

“Papa…” He looked up at her hopefully. “You’ve seen his ankle. Can you heal it?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She understood that the boy was distraught, but his constant requests were beginning to wear on her. “Healing is light magic,” she said. “I control dark magic.” She chose not to let slip that there were things she could do for him that didn’t technically constitute healing.

“Oh.” He toed the ground in dismay, kicking up a cloud of dust and ash. Then, with a resolute lift of his chin, the boy brandished the dagger. “Dark One. Restore the land that the war destroyed.”

Damnation. The war had been ongoing for a decade and a half, and had torn through dozens - if not hundreds - of leagues of land. Restoring all of that land to fertility would be a taxing undertaking even on a good day. With her strength depleted as it was, she wasn’t sure she could manage it. 

But the dagger demanded it. Helpless to resist, Belle gathered her power, focused it on her intent, and poured everything of herself into it. 

******

Bae watched in fascinated horror as dark smoke poured out of the Dark One, obscuring his vision entirely. The surrounding fields, the nearby campfire, the moon, even his feet - he was cut off from all of it. He waved a hand experimentally in front of his face, just barely able to make out its silhouette. 

He took a deep breath, readying himself to call out to the Dark One, and coughed as he got a lungful of the smoke. It smelled… odd. Like smoke, yes, but there were other scents as well. The odor of freshly-turned earth was one he knew well from tending the small vegetable patch back home. There was the musky-sweet smell of rotting leaves, and a familiar, leathery scent that he associated with his last visit to the tannery. Underneath all of that was vinegar, with a touch of… honey? All together it didn’t smell bad, but something about it put him on edge.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a minute or two, the smoke dissipated. The sight that greeted Bae wasn’t what he expected. Instead of verdant green pastures, he saw only bare earth with the occasional patch of grass. 

“Done,” the sorceress panted. “The ogres’ taint has been removed from the land. Anything planted here will flourish.” Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to her hands and knees at Bae’s feet.

“W-what happened?” Bae cried. 

“What  _ happened _ is you are a demanding jailer,” she snarled, keeping her head lowered. “All magic - all power - comes at a price. With no deal in place, it falls to me to pay it.”

“Jailer? I’m not…” He trailed off. She was right, he realized. In his good intentions to keep the world safe from her evil, he was keeping her imprisoned just as the Duke had. Just as he’d caged all of the other creatures… people… Bae had freed tonight. And the worst thing was, it would be  _ so easy _ to keep her like this. It would be easy to be just as horrible as the Duke was.

As he looked down on where she sat on her hands and knees, a disgusting thought occurred to him. This must have been what that knight had seen when he’d forced Papa to crawl and kiss his boots last night. And Bae was doing the same thing: forcing someone to the ground, making them submit to his will. The thought sickened him. He’d had many daydreams of becoming a knight one day, but he would rather die than become  _ that _ knight.

A lone cricket chirped somewhere off in the distance. Something about its melancholy trill made guilt gnaw at his gut. With great trepidation, he decided what to do, hoping that he wasn’t making  _ another _ mistake.

“Here,” he said, holding the dagger out to her by its curving blade. 

The Dark One eyed him mistrustfully. “What are you doing?

“It’s yours,” he explained. “I - I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I don’t want people to get hurt, but… I can’t hold you against your will. It feels wrong.”

Those large, silver eyes fixed on the dagger, her gaze hungry and covetous. She made no move to take it. “You’d better hold onto it, boy,” she said, “or you and your papa will be the first to die.”

“What?!” he squeaked, the dagger trembling in his hand. “But you said - we had a deal!”

“And you broke the terms,” she snapped back, tearing her gaze away from her prize, “rendering my end null and void. And then to add insult to injury, you order me about like a slave, forcing me to expend a massive amount of magical energy. Your debt to me is steep.”

“Can’t you just… I don’t know, let it go?” he asked. 

“No, I can’t,” she said, “I am a creature of deals and contracts, boy. I  _ cannot _ let a broken deal stand.”

“So… what do we do?”

She pushed herself onto her knees. “We seem to be at an impasse,” she observed. “You can’t free me without risking your life. My magic won’t allow me to leave the scales unbalanced.” Her chin lifted proudly. “I propose a new deal. You give me the dagger, and I let you and your papa live. In exchange, your life is mine. You will make up for the magical energy I spent catering to your whims.”

Bae’s imagination helpfully supplied all sorts of ways he’d be forced to help replenish her energy. Would she drink his blood, or suck his soul out of him? Perform experiments on him? Sacrifice him on her dark altar? “Wh-what are you going to do to me?” he asked.

“I’m going to put you to work, of course,” she said as though it were obvious. “I have a very large castle in need of a caretaker. You will scrub it top to bottom, and bottom to top. In addition, you will prepare and cook my meals. Once your efforts have made up for the power I wasted, you will be released from my service.”

He blinked. Cooking and cleaning? That was it? Surely he could handle that much. But he still had one concern. “If I go with you, I’ll be leaving Papa alone,” he said. “That’s hardly better than if I was sent off to war. The whole - the whole  _ reason _ I did all this was so Papa wouldn’t be alone.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line. “You refuse?”

“No, I just…” He took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. “I can’t make this decision without Papa. I already did the wrong thing once tonight.” He couldn’t regret the things he’d asked the Dark One to do. They were  _ right. _ Nothing could undo the damage the war had wrought, but he’d done what he could to give the survivors a new start. But in doing so, he’d put himself in an untenable position. 

“Very well.” She rose to her feet, dusting her palms and knees off. She seemed to have recovered somewhat. “Then let us go see your papa.”

Before he could say anything, he was surrounded by dark smoke once more.

******

The entire town was awash in a cacophony of revelry and weeping in equal measure. When the children had returned to their homes, parents burst out of every doorway. Some cried their thanks to the heavens for reuniting their family at last. Others stood silently on their threshold, eyes anxiously darting around in search of their missing loved one, before forlornly ducking back inside in defeat. A fire had been hastily lit in the village green. Soon the entire town was banding together for an impromptu celebration, whether their children returned or not. A feast was laid out, consisting mostly of hard cheeses, dried meats, bruised fruits, and the occasional loaf of fresh bread. Casks of ale, cider and harder spirits were opened to toast the end of the war and mourn those lost. 

Rumpelstiltskin’s ankle was plaguing him badly. By the time he’d gotten Anca safely into per parents’ arms, his entire foot was on fire. Taking his time getting back to his hut, he cut right through the middle of the celebration. Spirits were so high that some people even smiled at him as he passed. He kept his eyes lowered; by tomorrow, things would be back to normal, and everyone would hate him once more, if they even deigned to notice him.

Eventually, he made it home. The fire was still crackling merrily in his hearth. Vaguely, he wondered if Vivienne had tended it while he was gone. And of course, there was no Bae. Collapsing onto his son’s cot, Rumpelstiltskin slowly unlaced his right boot. The joint was badly swollen tonight, and the support of the stiff leather was all that kept the worst of the pain at bay. Gritting his teeth, he gingerly peeled the boot off, hissing as everything from his calf to his toes throbbed angrily at today’s mistreatment. He rolled the leg of his trousers up to his knee in the hopes that the cool night air would calm the swelling in the angry, reddened flesh. The mass of lumps and scarring never looked particularly appealing, but they stood out in harsh relief tonight. Familiar fingers probed the muscle, and he drew them back with a pained hiss. There would be no massaging the stiffness out tonight. On nights like these, Bae could sometimes soothe the inflamed tissue. But Bae wasn’t here.

Bae was with the Dark One.

And with that thought, all of the night’s terror caught up with him. Scalding, wet tears rolled down his cheeks. He desperately kept his sobs as silent as he could. The village was merciless on any man who dared show any emotion that wasn’t anger - him most of all. It was bad enough that he knew himself to be weak, missish, a pathetic specimen of manhood. Letting the townsfolk see it would only humiliate him further.

Clasping his hands before him, he prayed to anything that would listen - god, devil, fairy, even the Dark One herself. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, please, please. Please bring my boy back to me. Please let Bae be alright.”

“Papa?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s gaze shot to the door, and he nearly wept all over again in relief. There was his son, his beautiful boy, all limbs in place. “Oh, thank the gods,” he gasped.

“No gods involved,” a strange voice whispered from the doorway. “Just me.”

Belatedly, Rumpelstiltskin noticed the figure hovering at Bae’s shoulder. Dressed in deep red armor and leathers, she stood several inches taller than Bae in her heeled boots - probably roughly as tall as Rumpelstiltskin himself with the added height. Her long, curling hair reached her shoulder blades; the burnished curls were pulled half up, with long fringe framing her face. 

And her face… Her skin was covered in tarnished silvery scales, a texture not unlike the dragonhide coat she wore. Her eyes were large, framed by long lashes, her large irises a startling shade of silver that seemed to shine in the low light of the hearth’s fire.

She was…

With a start he realized that his face was still damp with his tears. Cheeks burning hot with shame, he scrubbed his face clean, belatedly throwing a blanket over his ruined foot to hide the ugly sight. If she’d noticed, she gave no indication.

“Thank you for returning my boy to me, D-Dark One,” he said, his tongue catching on her title. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered, stepping into the light and settling in a wooden chair. “Your boy has racked up a steep debt to me. I’m merely here to collect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of addressing a pet peeve of mine in fantasy (and war stories in general). In many movies/books/video games, the good guys defeat the bad guys, and... that's it. We don't see the aftermath. The rest of the evil empire's infrastructure just collapses. Everyone celebrates the victory (with MAYBE a token second to mourn the important dead characters). We don't see the lasting scars people carry, or the struggle to rebuild everything that's been destroyed. To me, that's the good shit! I want to see the Galactic Senate regain their power. I want to see the Fire Nation attempt to make reparations to the other nations. I wanted to show just a tiny bit of how, just because the Ogres War is over, doesn't mean that things are perfect.
> 
> Who knows - maybe we'll see more of that. I don't know where this story is going much better that y'all do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I got almost 100 hits in the past week! That's honestly more than I ever hoped to get at a time. Thank you for reading, and I hope you're enjoying it!

“Your boy has racked up a steep debt to me. I’m merely here to collect.”

Belle sat in the sole, rickety wooden chair in the hovel as though it were a throne: back ramrod straight, chin lifted so she could look down her nose at all in her presence. It was a familiar posture, one she’d learned at her mother’s knee. She hadn’t had occasion to use it in decades. But after five years of servitude, of bowing and scraping and kissing an undeserving man’s ass, she felt off-kilter. Being at the mercy of a peasant child only worsened the feeling. Despite her noble birth and the power afforded to her by her curse, she was still the powerless one here. A touch of hauteur would give the illusion of control, and possibly tilt the scales in her favor.

For the first time, she was able to get a proper look at the spinner while he was awake. If possible, he cut an even sadder figure than his son did. A man in his middle years, his frame under his threadbare clothes was slight - rail-thin and half-starved. His face was all sharp angles. Thin lips, angular chin, and long, pointed nose were framed by longish brown hair showing the first hints of gray. His prominent cheekbones were still streaked with the tears he’d hastily wiped away. The only soft part of his features was his eyes. A mild, whiskey brown color, they shone with a gentle, shy intelligence.

“Debt?” he asked. He glanced helplessly around the hovel, as though seeing his own meager belongings for the first time. “I don’t - I don’t have any money to repay you,” he mumbled helplessly.

“Oh, his debt can’t be settled by mere coin,” she whispered. The spinner shifted closer to hear her better, hissing in pain as he jostled his leg. Pursing her lips, eyes darting between his face and the foot he’d hidden under a blanket, she raised her voice slightly. “Your son made a deal with me, which he broke. He cost me a great deal of magical energy in doing so.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” The spinner’s gaze darted helplessly back and forth between her and his son. “Why make a deal with my son? We’re no one. We have nothing but each other.” 

“Exactly. You stood to lose everything if nothing was done. I needed that.” 

“I… I…” In that moment, the spinner looked lost. Sitting on the small, straw-stuffed mattress, one leg splayed awkwardly to the side, his shoulders slumped. His eyes didn’t seem to know where to look. They moved restlessly from his leg, to the hearth fire, to his spinning wheel. For a brief second they met her own. He shivered, and looked away. Finally his gaze settled on the boy. “I need to speak with my son. Please.”

Belle nodded her assent as the boy moved to his side on the small cot. Only a single cot in a home with two inhabitants, she noted. And apart from the accoutrements of their craft - the spinning wheel, the carding combs, and the sacks of wool that cluttered the floor - there was precious little in the hovel. The shelf where food was presumably stored was nearly barren, boasting only a few old root vegetables. There were no toys, no books, no blacksmith’s puzzles to pass the time. This was the home of a family who had nothing.

As father and son whispered animatedly amongst themselves - the boy looking guilty and defensive, the spinner agitated and fearful - Belle set her mind to something that had plagued her since she’d first encountered the pair in the woods last night. Reaching out with her magical senses, she scrutinized father and son together.

It was said that only a rare few people were blessed with the gift of magic without supernatural intervention. Some of these souls were shamans and herbalists, who had no idea that their herbs, poultices and elixirs were aided by an infusion of their own magical power. Others discovered their abilities early in life and sought tutelage. They learned to harness the power of the aether and bend it to their will for great good or terrible evil. Then there were people like Belle, who never knew a hint of their power until they received supernatural intervention. Had she known of her potential before claiming the curse as her own, her life may have gone very differently.

But what most people didn’t know was that  _ everyone _ \- every last human in the realms - contained the spark of magic in them. Most had the gift for small, inconsequential magics. The instinctual knowledge of how much salt to add to a pot of soup. Uncanny luck at dice games in the tavern. An innate knowledge of what ailed an animal. Most people went their whole lives never discovering their latent abilities, or chalking them up to luck.

She saw that spark burning in Baelfire’s chest, yet undiscovered. It spoke of a natural talent for subterfuge: bluffing, sleight of hand, the ability to slip amongst the shadows undetected. Such a power would be valuable for a thief or spy. Perhaps even a diplomat. It was a talent utterly wasted on the boy who fancied himself a hero.

Belle’s eyes slid over to the spinner searchingly, measuringly. His fingers were raking through his already tangled hair, his eyes frantic like those of a caged animal. That desperate energy was what had drawn Belle to him in the first place, that night in the woods. It was the look of a man at the end of his rope. She’d scried for his magical affinity that night, too, after he’d been knocked out, and found the same result she did now. At the time, she’d chalked it up to his unconscious state.

In the spinner’s chest, where the heart of his power should lie, there was… nothing. No spark, no flame, no bloom of light. He hadn’t been born this way, she knew; she could sense an absence, a void, where his talent should be. Either he was somehow blocking her from seeing his true ability, or it had been somehow, inexplicably, taken from him. And no mage powerful enough to resist the Dark One’s efforts would ever choose to live in such squalor.

Fascinating. This bore further study. Belle had been apprehensive about bringing the boy’s father into their… negotiations. A second servant may be welcome, but she had limited use for one who could hardly walk. But this was a twist she hadn’t expected. Initially, she’d been prepared to offer the spinner a king’s ransom in silver in exchange for her son’s servitude. No, that wouldn’t do at all. She resolved, then and there, not to leave this hovel until she secured the spinner’s presence in the Dark Castle. Even temporarily.

Gradually, she realized that the boy and his father were both staring at her. The spinner looked terrified. Baelfire merely looked curious.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked.

“Hush, boy!” his father scolded. He gripped his son’s shoulder, putting himself between his son and Belle.

“Your eyes were glowing and flickering,” he persisted. “I’ve never seen them do that before.”

“ _ Bae. _ ” The boy froze at the censure in his father’s tone. “Why don’t you go down to the village green and get yourself something to eat,” the spinner suggested in a tone that wasn’t a suggestion. His uncertain gaze glanced off of Belle for a split second. “And bring something for our guest, as well.”

The boy stood with a huff, tromping over to the door. He hesitated, and turned toward Belle. “Don’t hurt my papa. That’s a order,” he said, before ducking under the cloth.

She snorted. For a boy so hell-bent on doing the honorable thing, he showed a remarkable lack of trust. Why on earth would she go to all the trouble of proposing a deal if she was just going to kill them?

Perhaps the death threats  _ had  _ been a bit much, she admitted ruefully.

The hem of her coat stirred, and with a start she realized that the spinner was on his knees before her, his right leg jutting out at a strange angle. His head was bowed, and he held the dragonhide deferentially to his forehead.

“Please,” he begged, his shoulders trembling in fear. “Please take me instead. I’ll take on his debt as my own. I can - I can cook, and clean. I’ll do anything you ask. If I displease you, you can punish me however you wish.”

Belle stared down at the top of his head. Even in her days as a monarch, no one had ever groveled before her in this way. Something greedy and grasping inside her reacted to the sight: his humbly lowered eyes, the way the long strands of his hair curtained his face, the meekness in his posture. Were it not for his fearful quivering and hunger-starved frame, it might have been almost picturesque.

She reared back in disgust at the turn her thoughts had taken. Was this what she was to be, then? After five years of subjugation, was she no better than the Duke? Or was this her curse’s doing? Was she to be no better than Amrys, than Gaston, reveling in the suffering of those weaker than her?

“ _ No! _ ” she cried, hardly aware that she’d spoken aloud.

The spinner let out a whimpering sob. “Please! Beat me. Kill me. Anything. But I beg you - please,  _ please _ , spare my boy.”

She sighed. It seemed that he’d misinterpreted her outburst as refusal. “Relax, spinner.” 

“I can’t lose Bae,” he continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Please - I’ve already lost so much. I can’t lose him!”

Belle sighed in aggravation. The spinner was working himself up into a fine state. She needed to end this now, and her terrifying visage probably wasn’t helping his nerves. Gathering her energy, she managed to cast a minor glamour on herself. She didn’t have the strength to smooth her skin or whiten her teeth, but she could at least give herself human eyes. She’d seen the way he’d shuddered when his eyes met hers. Perhaps normal, blue eyes would be less unsettling than her silver ones.

Reaching out, she grabbed his chin in one hand, tilting his face roughly upward. “Spinner. Look at me.” His eyes slowly lifted to hers. She pinned him under her stare, and he fell silent. His breathing slowed, and his trembling gradually stopped. “What’s your name?” she asked him.

“R-Rumpelstiltskin.”

An unusual name. She’d never heard its like in all her travels. “Rumpelstiltskin. I don’t want to kill you or your son. If I did, I would have taken the dagger when your son offered it, and killed him then.”

He frowned confusedly. “But… you told Bae…”

“I told him that magic demands its price. It does. If I don’t set the price, the magic will.” It was an oversimplification, but she lacked the time, patience, and desire to delve into the complexities of her curse with him. She released his face, and he immediately lowered it again. She looked away. Feeling agitated, she rose from her seat and left him where he knelt. She crossed the room without a word. The glamour on her eyes faded, returning them to their normal state. Standing before the hearth with her back to the rest of the room, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I will not take you in his place. The debt is his to repay.”

“But—“

“ _ I’m not finished! _ ” She heard the click of the spinner’s teeth as he fell silent. She took a deep breath, held it, and released it. Then one more. Again. Once her temper was under control, she continued. “I mislike being interrupted, spinner. You would do well to remember that.” She paused, waiting to see if he would speak. He wisely kept silent. “I will not take you in his place,” she repeated, “but I’m not a complete monster.” She hoped that was true, but the intrusive thoughts she’d been having since the boy claimed the dagger were hardly reassuring. “If you must, you may accompany your son to the Dark Castle and help him to work off his debt.”

“Y-y-you would… you would d-do that?” he stammered.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. How had things gotten so out of control? She should be back at the Dark Castle now, dagger in hand. Instead she was bargaining for her freedom. It would have been so easy to take the dagger when the boy offered it and kill him and his father. Even better - eliminating them would have tied up a loose end. The boy knew about the dagger. After their talk, the spinner probably did, as well. Along with Duke Amrys, that made three people who knew her secret. The Duke would be taken care of once she had the dagger back.

But there had been enough death at her hands tonight. Enough death, and far too much relish in killing. Even now, the darker part of her craved more. The price of her mercy, it seemed, was to have her sanctum invaded by a nosey child with a hero complex and his crippled, cowering father.

But as with all her deals, she stood to gain more than she lost from this deal. The dagger alone was worth paying almost any price for. And having someone to cook and clean for her would be most welcome. The spinner’s affliction was an added bonus; it was so intriguing that she simply had to study it further. Belle had never been able to resist a good mystery.

“The debt is still your son’s,” she clarified, turning to face the spinner. At some point he must have crawled back to the bed. His crippled foot was covered once more by a ragged blanket. “If you join him, I won’t have him lazing about the castle while you do all the work.” 

He looked affronted at that, beneath his fear. “My son doesn’t laze about, and he would never have me carry his burdens.” His eyes met here squarely, and this time he didn’t look away. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, and he fidgeted with his thumb and forefinger, but his terrified gaze never left her face. 

Interesting. It was the first bit of backbone she’d seen from the man. Threaten the man’s life and he cowered in a corner. Insult his son and he stood firm in the face of his terror. Perhaps there were hidden depths to this humble spinner that only his son could bring out.

******

Bae tromped his way through the tall grass, looking anxiously over his shoulder every few steps. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Papa alone with the Dark One, but Papa had used “the voice.” The one that said that he was at the end of his patience. It was always best to make himself scarce when “the voice” made an appearance, lest he be in for a lengthy lecture.

But he’d left Papa alone with an evil sorceress. An evil sorceress who may or may not want to kill them both. Hopefully the order he’d given her was enough to keep Papa safe. In the meantime, he’d just have to be quick.

He approached the bonfire in the green quickly yet warily, keeping on his toes. Most of the villagers treated him well enough, or at least ignored him. But a few treated him just as poorly as they treated Papa. To them, the son of a coward was no better than his father. If he wasn’t quick on his feet, he might get his ears boxed for nothing more than looking at someone “funny.” 

Bae crept toward the feast table with some trepidation. In the warmer months, feast days were always celebrated here, with the whole village pitching in food and drink. On more than one occasion, he and Papa had stayed home because they simply didn’t have enough to share. It was better to observe the feast in the privacy and relative comfort of their home than to be accused of begging or stealing. It said a lot about Papa’s current mindset that he sent Bae out at all.

Papa told him to get food for himself and the Dark One. He didn’t mention anything about himself. Still, Bae was pretty certain that Papa hadn’t eaten anything since the drugged soup this morning. With that in mind, he snagged bits of food that he didn’t think would be missed: a heel of cheese, a few hardened crusts of bread, a few bruised pears, and two of the most burnt potatoes. Hopefully it would be enough for a modest meal for three.

Before he could take three steps back to his hut, a tall, wide-set man in a flour-dusted apron blocked his way, arms crossed over his chest. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” the baker demanded.

Bae winced, clutching his meager food tightly to his chest. “Just taking a little food back to my Papa,” he said, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders. The baker never hesitated to box Bae’s ears if the fancy struck.

“And just what did you or your father contribute, to the war or to the feast?” the burly demanded. “Your father turned tail and ran. You seem to have escaped fighting by the skin of your teeth. I’d wager you’d be halfway to Glowerhaven by now if the war hadn’t ended!”

An angry retort died on Bae’s lips. While he didn’t want to run, the fact was that if they hadn’t been stopped by the knights on the road, they likely  _ would _ be halfway to Glowerhaven by now. If not there, then Bardford or Ardglass or any of a dozen towns outside the duchy. They’d be on the road to safety, and the war would still be ongoing.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Morraine rushed to Bae’s side. She’d had a chance to change out of her oversized quilted armor and into her normal clothes. Her hair still smelled of the smoke of the battlefield, but her face and hands had been scrubbed clean. “If it weren’t for Baelfire-- ow!”

Bae frantically ground his heel into her toes. He met her betrayed glare with a slight shake of his head and lips pressed firmly shut. He and Papa were already pariahs in the town. If they learned that Bae had dealt - was still dealing - with the Dark One, they’d be driven out just as soon as the villagers were confident that the sorceress wouldn’t exact retribution on them.

Morraine seemed to get the message, because she didn’t continue her thought. The baker, for his part, was completely oblivious to their exchange. “We’ve had a harsh winter, and a hard fifteen years. We’ve nothing to spare for cowards.” Around them, a crowd had gathered, and a few people murmured their agreement.

Bitter rage burned hot in Bae’s chest. It wasn’t  _ fair. _ _ He _ was the reason that the fighting stopped and everyone went home. He’d dealt with the Dark One, walked to a castle in too-small boots, drugged everyone in the castle, found the Dark One’s dagger, freed prisoners, and ended a war - all on an empty stomach and no sleep. And to top it all off, it looked like he was about to lose his freedom. In the face of all that, the townsfolk’s treatment of him was salt in an open wound. He wasn’t looking for fame and fortune. He wouldn’t even ask for a thank you. All he wanted was to rest and get some food in his belly. Maybe that was why he didn’t guard his tongue.

“The last time I checked, you didn’t fight in the war either,” he snapped. “And your son is six months younger than I am, so neither did he.” He rounded on the rest of the villagers. Everyone was there - old and young, men and women, sickly and hale. “And maybe if you all actually paid my papa what he deserves when you buy his wares, we’d have enough for food! You don’t care that he ran from the war. You’re just using it as an excuse to cheat him out of what he deserves because you’re greedy, selfish bas--”

Pain exploded across Bae’s head, reverberating through his skull. Stunned, he gradually realized that he was sprawled on the ground, the food he’d collected strewn about the ground around him. The crowd had descended into arguing and bickering amongst themselves. Vivienne was screaming at the baker, face reddened with the heat of her ire. 

“You do  _ not _ hit a child!” she roared, jabbing the bigger man in the chest with one long finger. “The children of this village have seen enough violence to last a lifetime! If you have trouble grasping the notion, I’ll beat it into your head if I must!”

Gentle hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him up to a sitting position. “Come on,” Morraine said, helping him to gather up the food he’d dropped. “Let’s get you home.”

“Thanks, Morraine.” Clutching the items close to his chest once more, he glanced over her shoulder. Her parents, Thom and Alys, were watching the two of them. For once, they didn’t try to call her away from him. They watched, features drawn tight with disapproval, but said nothing. “I can take it from here. You go be with your family.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled reassuringly. “Yeah. Papa and I have things to talk about. It’d be best if I get home quickly.” Bae hoped she wouldn’t push the issue. He didn’t want Morraine to get mixed up in his deal with the Dark One. 

Fortunately, she didn’t. With a hesitant nod, she hurried back to her parents’ side, only glancing uncertainly over her shoulder once. Bae glanced around briefly. It seemed like nearly everyone else was busy arguing amongst themselves, instead of paying any attention to him. A small part of him felt guilty at ruining their feast. Everyone had a right to celebrate today. With the war looming over everyone’s heads, laughter and merriment had been in short supply ever since he could remember. But if he had to choose between letting them celebrate and letting him and his papa eat, he’d choose his family.

One person in the crowd was staring at him. He vaguely recognized her as a girl who had been called off to war a few years ago. What was her name? Anya, Anca? Her long, black hair was a matted curtain draped across her face. One wary brown eye peeked out from behind her hair, watching him intently. When she noticed him looking, she lowered her head and looked away.

That was odd. On any other day, he’d be tempted to get to the bottom of it. But he didn’t want to leave Papa alone in their hut with the Dark One for any longer than necessary. He hurried back as fast as he could without dropping any of the food he’d gathered. 

Papa and the Dark One both turned to face him as he burst through the door. The Dark One stood before the hearth, casting shadows over the tiny room. With the sole source of light directly behind her, her face was obscured in darkness.

“I brought food,” he announced unnecessarily, setting it all unceremoniously on the table. “I thought we could all eat before we… you know… figure things out.”

The Dark One made an impatient sound. “You’re wasting my time,” she growled. “Let us negotiate terms and be done with it.”

“B-but…” He fidgeted with a loose thread on the hem of his sleeve. “We… we need to eat a meal together first.”

Papa looked at him askance. “What are you talking about, Bae?”

He sighed. Of all people, Papa should know what he was talking about. “Like in your stories, Papa. When a host shows hospitality to a stranger, and they share a meal, it creates a bond. Spirits or gods who share a meal with their host can’t hurt them under their roof.”

The Dark One glanced between him and Papa, before finally settling on the latter. “Just what sort of nonsense have you been filling the boy’s head with?”

“Those were just stories, Bae,” Papa mumbled, his cheeks darkening. “They’re just meant to entertain.”

“Oh.” He supposed he wasn’t that surprised, but he’d hoped. He was willing to try anything if it kept him and Papa safe. If rules of hospitality wouldn’t save them, maybe just… being hospitable would. “Well… I’m starving, and Papa needs to eat, too.”

“I’m fine, son,” Papa interjected.

Bae continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “You said last night… you hadn’t had a warm meal in years.” More specifically, she said she hadn’t experienced kindness in years. Could it really be that simple? There was only one way to find out. “So will you break bread with us? We can talk while we eat.”

The Dark One didn’t speak for a full minute. None of them did. The only sound in the hut was the crackling of the fire burning in the hearth. With the flames burning behind her casting her face in shadow, he had no way to tell what she was thinking. 

“Yes,” she said softly. For the first time, her voice lacked its usual curtness.

Bae nodded. He split the food three ways onto worn wooden plates. Normally he and Papa ate at the table, but out of respect for the spinner’s ankle, he served their late, impromptu supper closer to the fire. Bae and Papa ate their meal on the bed, while the Dark One remained standing. Like with the soup he’d given her last night, she ate quickly and with relish.

Swallowing a bite of her meal, she cleared her throat. “So. To business. You have something of mine.”

Papa choked on a bite of food, coughing and sputtering. Bae pounded on his back until the fit passed. “Your dagger,” he agreed, pulling the blade from his waistband. Her eyes fixed on it hungrily. “You want your dagger back, and I want to give it to you. I want to keep me and Papa safe. I  _ can’t _ leave Papa alone to come serve you. He needs me.” Papa’s face lowered, his cheeks darkening in shame. 

“You needn’t worry about that,” the Dark One assured him. “Your papa and I have already spoken. I will allow him to accompany you to the Dark Castle and help you to work off your debt. He won’t be bound to my service as you will; if he wishes, he can leave at any time. As long as you perform the tasks I set for you, anything your papa contributes will go toward your debt.”

She was willing to take Papa with them? And Papa was okay with it? It was absolutely horrible and too good to be true, all at once. “Papa?”

His father’s smile was small, frightened, and sad. “Do you really think I’d let you face this alone?”

Before Bae could respond, the Dark One interjected. “If I may finish?” she whispered. Father and son nodded in unison. “Good. As my servants, you will be sheltered and provided for. Once your debt is repaid, you will be released from my service, and you need never hear from me again.”

It sounded almost better than he could have hoped. But he still had one concern. “And we’ll be safe? Even after the deal is done, you won’t hurt us?”

“You’ll both be safe. If you agree to my terms and serve me loyally, I will never harm either of you for as long as you live… under one condition.” She stepped forward, allowing the firelight to illuminate her face and those strange, silver eyes. “You both know about my dagger, and the power it contains. My oath lasts as long as your silence does. If you try to take it, or speak of it to anyone who doesn’t already know, I  _ will _ kill you both.”

Beside Bae, his father trembled. As one, they looked at each other. The Dark One was giving him a choice, but it wasn’t really a choice. If he refused, they would die. If he agreed, they would live. He could only hope that serving an evil sorceress wouldn’t be as horrible as he feared. Still, he waited for his Papa’s accepting nod.

“We’ll do it.”

Her pleased smile did nothing to soothe his troubled mind. “Excellent. Then--”

“Wait.” Papa flinched, bowing his head apologetically. “I-I’m sorry for interrupting,” he stammered. “I j-just have one request. Please.”

She looked furious, but merely pressed her lips together in a thin line. “My deal isn’t with you, spinner.”

“N-no, it’s not,” he agreed, daring to look the sorceress in the eye. “I’m… I’m not asking for a c-condition. Merely a kindness.”

“...Go on.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” he breathed, as though she’d granted him a great favor. “T-tomorrow is my boy’s birthday.” Papa’s arm wrapped around Bae’s shoulders, tugging him closer to his father’s side. “For the past few years, birthdays have been… s-something to be mourned, rather than celebrated. It just meant our children were one year closer to being taken from us.”

With a roll of her eyes, the Dark One made a rolling gesture with her first two fingers. “The point, if you please.”

“R-right. Yes.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued. “I… I’d like to be able to celebrate my son’s birthday. Could you… would you consider… Might I have one last day at home with my boy, to celebrate his birthday?”

Steely eyes darted suspiciously between the two on the bed. Bae rather thought that Papa was pushing their luck, but if the Dark One allowed it, he wouldn’t argue. He couldn’t deny that a small, selfish part of him missed the birthdays of his childhood.

Finally, she reached her decision. “Actually, that’s rather perfect. I have an appointment tomorrow that I refuse to miss. You will give me the dagger tonight, as soon as the deal is struck,” she said. “I will give you until dawn the day after the boy’s birthday. I expect you to be ready; any belongings you wish to take with you will be packed.”

Papa’s vigorous nod shook the two of them. “Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

“This had better not be an attempt to escape,” she warned, her brows lowering threateningly. “If you try to run, the deal will be null and void. Your punishment will not be swift, but you’ll wish it was.”

Papa swallowed. “Unders--” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “Understood.”

“Good.” She turned those cold eyes to Bae, who shuddered under their intensity. “And you, boy? Do you accept my terms?”

This was it. After he agreed, there was no going back. “I accept.”

In a mere two steps she’d crossed the room, looming over him where he sat on the low cot. Her shadow engulfed both him and Papa entirely. She reached a hand toward him, and he flinched. “One shakes hands when striking a deal,” she explained with exaggerated patience.

He stared dubiously at the outstretched limb. Her skin looked just as snake-like as ever, and those black claws could probably slice him to ribbons. He licked his lips. “You’re not going to cut my palm and make us mix blood, are you?”

She muttered something he didn’t catch under her breath - something about “ridiculous stories.” “Just a handshake,” she assured him, her voice tinged with annoyance.

Reluctantly, he gripped her hand in his. Like the handle of the dagger, her scaled hand was overly warm to the touch. The bones of her hand felt small and delicate under her slickly textured skin, smaller than his own work-hardened ones. Despite her lack of height, Bae had a hard time attributing delicacy to this powerful, intimidating woman.

“The deal is struck,” she murmured.

He nodded. Hoping to start this deal on a good note, he offered the dagger to the Dark One without prompting, holding it gingerly by the blade and offering her the handle. She took it just as carefully, cautious not to let the wavy blade cut his palm. Something small, flat, and round materialized in his palm. He looked. It was a small, worn silver coin - similar to the one she’d given him yesterday to buy the sleepweed, but smaller. Still, it was more money than Papa would make in months.

“Enjoy your birthday,” she whispered as she vanished in a puff of purple smoke. By her tone, he couldn’t tell if she genuinely wished him well, or if she was warning him to enjoy what little freedom he had left.

******

Belle clutched the dagger tightly in one fist, luxuriating in her newfound freedom. After a quick stop at the Duke’s keep to fetch the two things that belonged to her, she came immediately home to the Dark Castle’s entrance. Philippe was transported directly to his usual stall in the stables, with fresh hay to replace the half-rotted stuff in the stall. The other was sent directly to the dungeons to wait. The magical travel left her feeling a bit weary, but not as drained as before. Now that the dagger was in her possession once more, she could draw a bit of power directly from the weapon itself. She wouldn’t be performing any great feats of magic until she got a few more meals and a good night’s sleep, but she had enough power to suit her needs for the time being.

The grounds were, as she’d feared, a mess. The overgrown gardens were choked with weeds, and the topiaries had lost all of their shape. The stones in the cobbled path between the shrubberies no longer lay flat and smooth; weeds and grass had caused them to stick up randomly here and there, making one more likely to trip than to enjoy a pleasant stroll.

Reaching out to the wards she’d set on the castle on that fateful day five years ago, she heaved a sigh of relief. The ward repelling vermin from the castle had failed at some point, but the one keeping people out was still in place. She had many powerful magical artifacts in the castle. Many would be dangerous in the wrong hands. 

The ward came tumbling down with a fault as Belle strode through the oversized wooden doors into the entrance hall. Torches lit themselves in their sconces upon her entrance. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. A few insects skittered away at the sudden sound and light. Nearly every surface of the room was covered in cobwebs, and judging by the odor, there was a rat infestation as well. Disgusting.

Focusing her strength, Belle cast a weak spell that would gradually drive the vermin from the castle. While many of the souls desperate enough to come here might expect the Dark One to live in a dismal, infested castle, she had much higher standards for living. Once the boy and his father were here, they would restore the place to something more habitable. She supposed the kind thing would be to give the castle a preliminary, cursory cleaning. But she wasn’t in the habit of doing the kind thing. Their service had been bought with an enormous amount of magic power. What good was hiring a pair of servants if she did their work for them?

Besides, she had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Transporting herself to her room would have expended very little energy. Still, she chose to walk. She’d been gone so long that she wanted to savor the feeling of being somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe. Fingers leaving dust trails wherever she went, she meandered through various rooms, making her way slowly, indirectly closer to her chambers. Time, neglect, and vermin left much of the furniture needing so much more than dusting. Wood needed polishing. Upholstery was torn beyond repair. Paint was peeling. She dreaded the state of her library, and hoped that the insects and rats hadn’t damaged her books too badly. Some of her scrolls were far too ancient to expose to magic without risk of them crumbling to dust.

Finally, her unhurried travels took her to her bedroom. With a thought and a flick of her fingers, the copper bathing tub was scrubbed clean and filled with fragrant, steaming water. She couldn’t help the eager smile that curled her lips. Her magic had kept her clean enough while enslaved to the Duke, but it felt like forever since she’d last had the luxury of a good, long soak.

Her armored jacket and the men’s clothes she’d conjured disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving her nude. She looked down at herself - at the blackened claws that tipped her fingers and toes, at the slats of her ribs and the sunken, concave curve of her belly, at the grayish scales that covered every inch of her - and shuddered. A wave of her hand topped off her bathwater with a heaping layer of bubbles, which she sank into gratefully. She leaned her head back with a contented sigh. The only things that would make this better would be a cup of tea and a book. 

With nothing to occupy herself, she allowed her mind to wander back to the lame spinner and his son. At the back of her mind, she still felt the tracking enchantment she’d placed on the rose. The spell would have faded if the spinner had discarded the flower. Why on earth had he held onto it? Her first instinct had been to cast the spell on a coin, but a man as poor as the spinner would be tempted to spend it. The rose had been the whim of a moment. The Duke’s rose bushes were the sole source of beauty and comfort in her enslavement. It had seemed fitting to gift it to the man she’d hoped would become her savior. Things hadn’t worked out as she’d expected, but if her gift brought him the same comfort it had brought her, she supposed she had no objection.

It would be strange having servants in the castle. Apart from a few business associations, her existence as the Dark One had been largely solitary. Having a family living with her would take an adjustment. Oh well. As long as they both worked hard and kept out of her experiments and the more dangerous magical artifacts, all would be well.

Eventually the water started to cool, prompting her to leave the tub. A quick spell dried her, and another dressed her in a gown of lilac silk with a diaphanous cream overlay. Pastels didn’t go well with her skin tone, but she was dressing for a purpose. Looking down at herself, she eyed the short, off the shoulder sleeves and low sweetheart neckline thoughtfully. Substituting them for a higher neckline and longer sleeves was the effort of a moment. 

Sliding her feet into a pair of delicate silk slippers, she left her room, closing the door behind her. Practiced hands delicately lifted her skirt, holding it up off of the dirty floors. Head held high, she made her way slowly to the stairs, quietly relishing each step that took her closer to her destination. She descended leisurely to the bowels of the castle until she came to the dungeon. All of the cells were empty, with the exception of the one at the far end of the corridor. Belle slipped into that cell, leaving the sole torch in the room unlit. Her eyes could easily penetrate the deepest shadows. 

And as for her prisoner? He had lost his fear of the darkness, forgotten the horrors the lie within. It was time for a long overdue reminder. Reaching into his consciousness with her power, she nudged him to full wakefulness. Her lips spread in a gleeful grin.

“Aaaaamrys,” she singsonged. “Time to wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez. Five chapters in and Rumpel STILL isn't in the Dark Castle? I figured we'd be there by now! I wonder how long this thing is going to end up.


End file.
